Runaway Home
by Hughesish
Summary: This is an AU in which John is a 16 year old who's run away from home to London. After a spill in a Tesco he finds himself being 'offered' to share a flat with one mysterious Sherlock Holmes. M for later chapters
1. Chapter 1

**Runaway Home**

**Chp 1**

John hadn't planned on being a runaway, on being just another statistic. He hadn't had much of a choice though. He couldn't stay at home anymore. It wasn't safe there…it hadn't been for a while. So he'd saved his money and taken a train to London the first chance he got. From what he'd heard the city would be perfect for him - it was big, unlike his hometown; you could lose a person in London quite easily. He would be just another anonymous face that blended in with the crowd; certainly no one would see him as "that Watson boy" anymore.

When he finally exited the train he breathed a sigh of relief - there was a sense of accomplishment attained simply by arriving in the city. If he was honest, he'd been sure someone would have stopped him. Not that people would truly feel his absence, although it would give them something to talk about. He supposed Sarah would miss him, she had been his only serious girlfriend, and one of his few friends, Mike, and his rugby mates would probably be a bit put out. There was no use in thinking that they'd have come for him though. It wasn't as though he'd announced his departure and as much as it pained him to admit it they probably all knew what was happening anyways. They'd understand. Even if they had known he was leaving, they might have just let him go. His sister might miss him cleaning her up after one of her rougher nights out, although Harry had never been too keen on accepting his help. Her girlfriend Clara could take care of that though; she'd signed up for it after all. She knew what a drunk Harry was - everyone in town knew. His mom might be worried, but she wouldn't do anything, not unless _he_ told her to. His dad, if you could even call him that, wasn't fond of his son (to put it mildly). He wasn't much of a dad if you asked John, or anyone who knew the man for that matter. He might come after him out of spite just so that he could make John's plans of a new life fail before they even began.

As he wandered the city, soaking in all the new sights and sounds, that thought burrowed deep in his mind: his new life. This was his chance to become someone new, to do something different, to start over… but how? He wasn't even sure what he wanted to do with his life. He entertained the thought of joining the military, but he also wanted to get some sort of education. There was a time he'd been dead set on becoming a writer, to pen fantastic tales of mystery and heroism. But then again, he didn't think himself to be that great of an author. One talent he'd had was biology; he'd always taken an interest in the art of medicine and learning all the functions of the body… or at least as much as anyone takes an interest in those things. For the most part what really appealed to him was the idea of helping people, which was why the military option stuck out to him as well. He wanted so many things: adventure, mystery, to help, romance, friendship… the problem was that he didn't know how to go about getting those things. He supposed he'd have to enroll himself in school somehow to finish his education. It was the summer though, so he had a few months to sort that all out. First, he needed a job and a place to sleep.

He traveled around a while, looking at the shops and stores. It was all so new and big, but eventually he found his way to a Tesco with a large 'help wanted' sign hanging in the window. He decided it was best to apply at any place where work was available; he didn't want to take his chances and end up with no money in less than a week. He walked into the store, his overly large backpack in tow, and searched for the front counter to inquire about applying. When he turned the corner, however, he found something else entirely and he ended up colliding with it at full speed. After the initial shock of impact he looked down to see he'd knocked over a perfectly nice looking older woman and all of her groceries.

"I'm so sorry!"

He stammered and lowered himself to help her up. She accepted his hand and John lifted her off the tiled floor.

"Let me get those!"

He almost yelled when the woman moved to pick up her bags. John swooped down to gather all of the items that had rolled away and placed them all back into the bags. Once collected he picked up the bags in both hands and stood with a weak smile directed at the woman. She smiled back at him in an amused manner.

"I'm really sorry about that; it was an accident, really!"

"It's alright dearie, no harm done."

John didn't like causing trouble for people, especially people who seemed so nice; he couldn't just leave it at that.

"Let me carry these to your car for you, it's the least I could do."

She observed him for a moment but let out a soft chuckle and nodded her head in consent. With a quick wave of her hand she motioned for him to follow as they made their way out to the car park. Her car was relatively close, so it didn't take long for the two of them to get there. All the same, John could feel the strain in his arms from carrying the heavy bags. It seemed impossible that a lady of her size could have carried these, which made a small part of him was glad he'd bumped into her for that very reason. They piled the bags inside of her small car and she shut the door with a soft thunk. John gave her a tight smile and started to walk away when she spoke up.

"What's your name, young man?"

He shuffled on his feet and considered for a moment making up a new name for his new identity. It could be fun… but he'd never been good at lying.

"John, John Watson."

"Well it's a pleasure to make your acquaintance John, my name is Mrs. Hudson."

She extended one of her small hands out and John shook it with vigor.

"It was nice to meet you too ma'am. Sorry about bumping into you though, I can be a bit of a klutz."

She nodded again but waved her hand as if to brush the incident away. She observed him for a beat before she carried on.

"That's quite alright… if you don't mind me asking, what's in your bag there?"

John looked back to his backpack as if to verify that it was in fact the object she was questioning. The woman smiled warmly at the boy as he seemed to struggle with an answer.

"Just some stuff, travel stuff… I'm kind of new to town."

"Oh."

She looked at him curiously but there was a twinkle in her eye of something John couldn't quite place.

"Where are you from?"

John didn't want to appear disturbed by the continued line of questioning, but he'd never been good at masking his emotions. He was certainly worried about what Mrs. Hudson would think if she found out, as well as what she would say or do. What if she called his parents or made him go back home? He decided that while he might not want to lie, he could be extremely vague.

"Just a small town in the middle of nowhere, you've probably never heard of it."

He said trying his best to sound nonchalant.

"All the same…you're not from around here. Who did you come with? You're a bit young to be on holiday by yourself."

John scratched the back of his head nervously; this was the exact opposite of where he wanted this conversation to be going.

"I-uh-I'm older than I look."

It wasn't exactly a lie; his height left something to be desired and he'd often been mistaken for a person a year or two younger than himself, although the width of his shoulders were normally a dead giveaway to how mature he really was. He wasn't good at this lying business though, so there wasn't much else he could think to do.

"Well, I'm sure you are, still… I'm not here to judge dearie, but it seems to me you're not quite the type to be roughing it out on the streets. Not that you don't seem brave or anything, it's just I hate the thought of a nice boy like you amongst some of the shadier characters around here. Now there's no need to argue, I've seen your type before; you've come here to get away from your past haven't you? Well, that's your choice to make, not one I agree with mind you, but I'd be remiss if I left you like this. Have you even got yourself a place to stay?"

John wasn't sure how to respond, the woman was remarkable at reading him; he almost looked to check if he'd posted a sign on his forehead.

"I-I looked up some cheap motels I can stay at until I save up enough money for a flat."

She looked at him considering for a moment before shaking her head.

"No, that won't do, not at all."

"Excuse me?"

"I can't accept that, no telling what could happen to an innocent boy such as yourself in one of those seedy places. No, you come with me."

"Oh, no, I couldn't impose, really, it'll be fine."

He waved his hands in objection but she didn't seem to be hearing any of it. She simply started to steer him towards the passenger side door as he sputtered out protests.

"Don't fret love; I don't mind at all, in fact you're just what I need."

She pushed him into the seat with surprising force before he could blurt out anything else. The woman came around momentarily and strapped herself in while John wiggled out of his backpack. When they got out to the main road she started to talk again.

"You seem a bit young to be out on your own to me, but I don't know all the facts and I don't know why you chose to come here. I won't make you go back home or anything, but you should consider it, or at least letting your parents know where you are…I'm sure they're worried."

John looked out the window and away from the woman as they turned down a side street.

"No, nobody worries about me."

She gave him a pitying look and removed a hand from the wheel momentarily to pat his knee.

"While I'm sure that's not true, perhaps some time away will put everything in perspective, hmm? Besides, Sherlock may even grow to like you."

"Who?"

"Oh, my mistake, I didn't even explain. I'm a landlady dearie, I've a few tenants but this man… well he's a bit of a pain, he is. Don't get me wrong, I love him to pieces, but he's just a handful. He gets temperamental and grumpy, and he's got horrible manners, but he's really a sweetheart deep down…deep, deep down. At any rate, he's a bit of a science enthusiast you could say; he conducts experiments all the time. That's the problem you see, he conducted one just this morning that ruined my bloody wall! With any luck this will teach him a much deserved lesson."

She explained with a devious wink.

"I'm sorry… what lesson?"

She patted his knee once more with a comforting smile.

"Don't worry love, I don't mean any offense to you, but he'll be a bit put off if I make him take you in as payment for those walls. He's not exactly a people person, so he may not take to you very well, but he'll manage. Besides, his brother has been trying to get me to convince him to get a flat share for the longest time now, he even mention paying for their share of the flat if I could find someone brave enough to live with the dear. So, at least you'll have some place to stay, for free too. That's not bad if you ask me, even considering the company."

John shifted nervously in his seat.

"Is he really that bad?"

She gave a light chuckle at that and shot him another warm smile.

"Don't you worry; you'll be able to handle him. I can tell. You're a tough one. He'll warm up to you. Though if you ever feel uncomfortable, you can always come get me. If he tells you to do anything you don't feel comfortable doing you can also just threaten to tell his brother, that normally works too."

John nodded his head and went back to looking out the window as Mrs. Hudson prattled on about all the things John could do in the city, especially during the summer. He wasn't very concerned about that at the moment though; he was more preoccupied with trying to figure out if this was going to be good. There was no doubt he'd be lucky to find a better offer than free for a flat, but he didn't really want to end up living with another psychopath. At the very least he had to give it a shot. Mrs. Hudson was an awfully nice woman and he doubted she wouldn't knowingly put him in any real harm. If he didn't like it he could always leave, he was his own person now; he could come and go as he pleased. Nothing was written that he had to live with this man, so he would give it a chance.

As they pulled onto Baker Street John took a steadying breath; maybe this Sherlock wasn't as bad as she made him seem.


	2. Chapter 2

**Runaway Home**

**Chp 2**

**Somebody stop me!**

Mrs. Hudson had insisted it wasn't necessary, but John felt that it most certainly was. Here she was offering him a flat, for free, and she expected him not to at least help with the groceries? She had clearly been around this Sherlock bloke for too long. From what he could tell the man was highly irregular and didn't seem to follow proper conventions. Despite all that, Mrs. Hudson assured him that this so called 'consulting detective' was a nice chap. Once they had finished putting the food away she'd served him a steaming cuppa which, if he thought about it, was the best he'd ever had. He didn't get to enjoy it for long, though, because the second the front door opened Mrs. Hudson flew out of her chair and over to John.

"That'll be him."

She enthused, pulling John out of the soft arm chair. By some miracle he managed to grab his backpack as the older woman dragged him out of her flat and up the stairs. She didn't even hesitate, instead she just charged right up to the door. With one quick warning knock she entered the second story flat with John in hand. The boy resisted the urge to rub his eyes when he looked at the man. Sherlock Holmes was tall (well, taller than he'd ever hope to be at any rate) with dark curls and stunningly bright blue-green eyes. His skin was milk white and he was so thin John was almost certain he'd disappear the moment he turned to his side. He wore a blank expression, but there was something analytical in his gaze which made John's breath hitch. He'd never met someone so intense before; everyone from his town was remarkably boring in every respect. Sherlock looked between the older woman and the boy for a moment then narrowed his eyes.

"Mrs. Hudson, I hope you are not serious. You can't expect me to live with a teenager."

John almost gasped, how could the man have possibly known that? He was fairly certain Mrs. Hudson hadn't told him about the new living arrangements. For a moment he entertained the possibility that this man was a psychic, but was forced to give the idea up when his attempts at focusing crass thoughts into the man's head seemed to fail.

"Now, Sherlock, he's a very nice boy. Besides, I'm afraid you've given me little choice. Ever since that incident at the Thames your brother has been most insistent on finding someone suitable to live with you, and after this morning I've been very inclined to do so as well."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes even more and took a step towards Mrs. Hudson so that he was looming over her.

"Is this blackmail?"

If the woman was at all intimidated by the tall man's advancements she didn't show it.

"Of course not. I fully intend to deliver. I've already promised John here the upstairs room; you only use it as a library of sorts anyway."

Sherlock moved his glare off of Mrs. Hudson and over towards John. The boy could feel his insides go ice cold.

"You think you're lucky, don't you? A free flat for you to hide out in? You won't enjoy it for long; I'm sure that abusive father of yours will be along shortly. You surely left an obvious enough trail. You don't look very bright to me."

Mrs. Hudson let out a gasp and John paled considerably. How could he have known that? That psychic idea was starting to crop up in the back of his mind again.

"Sherlock!"

The woman scolded but the man paid little attention; he simply continued to stare at John with those piercing eyes.

"H-how did you…" John couldn't even form the sentence, he was so caught off guard. Both in the man's accuracy and in the fear related to his words. He hadn't thought about his dad coming to find him, or what he might do if he did.

"How did I figure it out? Simple. You're obviously a runaway judging by that ridiculously over packed backpack. You needed something easy to carry but required a large quantity of items to bring along with you. Since you're looking for a flat rather than a hotel it's obvious you're planning on staying here long term. Too young to be on your own, no parents, you're a runaway. That coupled with the fact that your clothes reek of alcohol while you yourself don't seem to show any symptoms of alcoholism or to having recently consumed any means it must be a common fixture in your household. So you've got an alcoholic father, statistically speaking it is more likely to be your father than your mother, and you're running away from home. Most alcoholic parents tend to have abusive tendencies, at least, while they are intoxicated, and considering the break in your nose I'd say it had been broken at least once in your youth. So, abusive father. Not really a difficult leap if you think it through properly."

John could do nothing but stare for a long time. Mrs. Hudson was scolding the man and trying to apologize to John all while the man simply looked extremely pleased with himself.

"That was… amazing."

John breathed out in the middle of Mrs. Hudson's third attempt to make Sherlock apologize. The man looked over at the boy with an expression of confusion.

"I'm sorry, did you just say… amazing?"

Mrs. Hudson looked equally stunned and she moved towards John as if he were about to faint or something of the like.

"Yes, that was - it was fantastic. I've never met anyone who could do that before, you must be some sort of genius."

John beamed; he wasn't used to being around someone so unique. Everyone from his town was so generic and, quite frankly, boring. Sherlock was something he'd never seen before, he was special. The man appeared to be taken off guard by his response though, which John considered odd. Surely he heard this sort of praise regularly?

"Don't feed his ego John dear, he really doesn't need it… are you sure you're alright?"

John nodded his head vigorously. He turned his attentions back on the almost blushing detective.

"Yes, yes, I'm fine. How did you learn to do that?"

Sherlock studied him for a moment and shook his head as if to clear it.

"It's a skill I've perfected over time, it's not really something you learn rather than you just simply do. I observe. It's quite easy really. Although you are correct, I am a proper genius."

The man had a smirk on his face now that caused Mrs. Hudson to scowl.

"Oh, now I know you'll enjoy this far too much. I knew this boy was too nice for his own good."

She turned to John and gave him a wink. John smiled in response and finally took the time to cast an observatory glance around the flat. There was a large amount of what looked like beakers filled with various chemicals and a pig's head on the kitchen table. Those would be the experiments Mrs. Hudson mentioned earlier, he supposed. In the living area there were papers strewn about in a crazed manner and a large black coat hung heavily over the back of a rather comfortable looking armchair. He assumed that belonged to Sherlock, who was now being lectured by Mrs. Hudson about the proper conduct of a responsible adult around a minor. He nearly burst out laughing when he saw the moose head on the wall, there was just something so comical about it. Sherlock seemed to notice as he was paying little attention to the older woman and his eyes wandered between John and the moose head. As far as the boy could tell he found his response amusing, considering he smirked just a bit. John was continuing his once over of the flat when he realized there was a skull resting on the mantle place.

"Excuse me."

He croaked out and the two adults turned their attention to the young man.

"Is that a _real_ human skull?"

If he'd been at anyone else's house he'd have assumed it to be fake, but this was the man with brilliant observation skills and, more importantly, a severed pig's head on the kitchen table. Sherlock's smile widened as he walked over to the skull and gave it a light pat.

"Indeed it is."

John just nodded in response. He should probably be concerned, but somehow it just fit with the room and the man who lived there. Mrs. Hudson, on the other hand, had a decidedly different opinion as she walked over to snatch the skull. Sherlock let out a scoff in protest but she raised her finger to silence him before he could get a word in.

"I'm hiding this from you until I see some improvement in your behavior. This bloody thing shouldn't be in a person's flat anyway."

John chuckled at the scene and the pair looked over at him quizzically.

"Sorry."

He offered with a blush. The woman smiled warmly in response and move towards him to pat his shoulder softly.

"Don't let him bully you. If you need some clean sheets I can lend you some until you've gotten a chance to settle in."

"Thanks Mrs. Hudson."

She left him with a smile before shooting a stern look at Sherlock who simply rolled his eyes in reply. Once she'd shut the door the man was next to him in an instant. He obviously had no qualms about personal space.

"Can I help you?" John asked tentatively, backing away a little to give himself some room to breathe.

"You don't like it when men who are larger and older than you come too close. Definitely abuse. Guess I can't blame you for leaving. While I guarantee there won't be physical beatings, I think it's only fair to warn you living with me may not be as pleasant as you might think."

"I'm beginning to catch on."

John chuckled and the corners of Sherlock's lips twitched as he held back a smile.

"I play violin at all hours of the day and night, sometimes I don't talk for days on end, you'll occasionally find human body parts in the fridge… I hope none of that's a problem for you."

John thought about it for a moment and found that while it probably should be, it really wasn't. He'd take it over his family any day. What were a few human fingers compared to a fridge full of beer bottles that would likely be thrown at him later?

"Sounds fine to me, though as long as we're listing faults you should know I tend to talk in my sleep."

Sherlock gave an appreciative smile and moved back over to the kitchen table.

"Feel free to make yourself at home; your room is just up the stairs, mind the fourth step though."

With that he slipped on a pair of gloves and delved into what looked like some messy business with the pig's head. John smiled and headed up the stairs. The room was large compared to his bedroom back home and filled with books. He liked that though; in fact, he might just leave them there. It was nice. His room back home had always been bare, and the books added a sort of decorative element. The bed was huge and John couldn't help but let out a small squeal when he looked at it. Within seconds he'd dropped his backpack and plopped on top of the soft mattress. For the first time in a long time he felt completely happy, just lying on a big soft bed in a room full of books. Sherlock might be weird, but he seemed nice enough, and Mrs. Hudson was very kind. This running away business was starting to look like the best decision he'd ever made.


	3. Chapter 3

**Runaway Home**

**Chp 3  
**

Three weeks. Yes, if he thought it through properly it had taken three weeks for John to fall in love. And he fell hard.

He fell in love with Mrs. Hudson's cooking, her tea, her motherly nature, the way she insisted on straightening out their flat while telling them she was not their housekeeper, and how she would dote on him as if he were a china doll. He fell in love with the flat itself, the way it always smelled of chemicals and the musty scent of old books, that the fridge always contained some body parts, the way the heater rattled at two in the morning, and even how the fourth step seemed to be out to kill him. Most of all though, he fell in love with his ever mysterious flat mate Sherlock Holmes, and that was the deepest love of all. He loved those dark curls and deadly eyes, he loved the way the man played violin at all hours of the night, he loved how he would get so excited with a new case, he even loved him when he was bored and running up the walls. He definitely loved him when he was being flawlessly clever. There was no explanation for it all; everything John thought he should find annoying or weird he was growing to love more and more. It made him start questioning himself. Before all of this he would have said he'd been in love with Sarah, with rugby, and with hanging out with his mates at the local fish and chips shack. Now he realized he couldn't have been, because he'd been fine to throw all of that away, but _this_… he wouldn't give it up for the world.

He'd come to discover this approximately five weeks into his stay at 221B Baker Street, specifically on the day he got a ride home from the Tesco. He'd finally gotten an interview and managed to maintain a lower level of awkwardness than usual long enough to earn himself the job, and by some miracle he'd even been able to convince some of the other employees that he was not, in fact, some barmy runaway. On his thirteenth day of employment, though, he was stopped short on his walk home by a black Lincoln. At first he thought he'd been imagining it; there was no way that the woman, who was far too pretty to have any interest in John, was waving for him to come towards the car. When it continued to follow him down the street he decided that perhaps it wasn't just a figment of his imagination and ventured over to the looming vehicle.

"May I help you?"

He asked, trying not to sound too nervous. The woman smiled at him mechanically and opened the door. After she scooted to the other seat she motioned for him to get in. John wasn't sure if that was a good idea; he'd learned in primary school not to take rides from strangers. There was something in the pit of his stomach that just wanted to leap in though. He knew what it was, and he liked the mystery of it all. John had to refrain from rolling his eyes - he found himself so predictable, and despite his desire to stick to normal conventions he had always jumped head first into an adventure. So, of course, he climbed into the car with no more than a moment's hesitation.

"Can I ask what it is that you want with me?"

"My boss just wants to have a quick chat is all."

The woman replied as if it was the most normal thing in the world and pulled out a blackberry which she immediately began typing away on. John just turned to look out the window as they drove through the city. He wasn't an overly anxious bloke, but he started to get a bit paranoid the farther they got from Baker Street. He contemplated texting Sherlock to let him know that he'd been possibly been kidnapped. At least that way if he was being abducted he could count on being found soon - he just hoped it would be alive. Not that the woman seemed exceedingly threatening, but she wasn't very warm or welcoming either. Besides, they were getting closer and closer to what Mrs. Hudson referred to as the 'seedy' parts of town. He gave a quick look over at the woman; she hadn't appeared to look up from her phone, which John took as an invitation to sneak his own out to send a quick text.

_Took a ride from a stranger, may not have been the best idea, getting farther and farther away from the flat._

He sent the text off and placed his phone back in his pocket, satisfied with himself for getting the job done. Just then the car pulled into a worn down warehouse that didn't seem to be very structurally sound in John's opinion. The woman smiled at him and motioned for him to exit the car, which he did, but very slowly. At first there was nothing - he stepped out of the car and the more he walked away from it the deeper the sinking feeling in his stomach went. Curse his sense of adventure, he should have known better, now he was going to be killed and it would be _his_ murder Sherlock solved this week. John's phone buzzed but before he could reach to retrieve it a tall man sporting an umbrella strolled up. John contemplated answering his phone anyway, perhaps he'd have a few seconds to scream out to Sherlock (or at least he assumed it was Sherlock calling)… things about his captor or the place he'd been taken; with any luck he'd be found before he was dead.

"Let's let him wait, shall we? You'll be able to talk with him soon enough."

The man's voice was stern and sent chills down John's spine, but he found it somewhat reassuring to hear he'd be able to talk with Sherlock soon.

"Who are you?"

John asked cautiously. The man smiled and swiveled his umbrella.

"Surely you've heard of me. My name is Mycroft Holmes, I'm Sherlock's brother."

The boy didn't know whether to relax or become even more concerned. From what he'd heard Mycroft was a very powerful man, although not someone Sherlock was very fond of, but that didn't necessarily mean he was in danger.

"Couldn't you have just given me a ring? I would have met you if you'd asked; Sherlock could have come with us."

He said motioning to his phone that was ringing again.

"His presence is not required at this time. This is a conversation for just the two of us, which is precisely why I couldn't simply _'ring'_ you. When dealing with Sherlock one must be… sneaky."

He explained with a light huff, as if this whole conversation was a horrible inconvenience.

"I'm sorry… what is it that you need to discuss with me?"

Mycroft stopped examining his umbrella to bring his intense stare up to John; the blond found he didn't like this look very much at all, to put it mildly. If he were the age Mrs. Hudson was always treating him like, he might have wet his pants right there.

"You're living with my brother. I would have contacted you sooner but I had some… business to attend to. At any rate, perhaps it's good you had some time first. I take it you plan on staying at Baker Street for a while?"

John flexed his hand nervously. He wasn't sure how he should be responding; he wasn't sure what Sherlock would want him to say to the man. John was still a horrible liar though, despite all his time spent with the detective, and decided this was not the sort of man you lied badly to and lived to tell the tale.

"Yes. I like it there very much… thank you, by the way."

Even if the man was terrifying and possibly kidnapping him, he still felt the need to thank him for the flat. It was one of the greatest and kindest things anyone had done for him, whether or not he was some scary umbrella wielding maniac.

"You're very welcome. Mrs. Hudson told me you plan on paying your share once you've saved enough money."

John nodded. It was true; he had planned on paying for his half once he'd earned enough money. He liked having it paid for, but he didn't want to mooch off of the Holmes's generosity.

"That is noble of you, but not necessary. I'm more than willing to pay both your and my brother's shares so long as you continue to be such a good influence on him."

"Ok… thank you… I'm glad you think I'm a good influence… is that all you needed to say to me?"

John shifted on his feet uncomfortably. He wasn't exactly sure where this conversation was going, but he knew for sure that he really didn't like it when the tall man looked at him like that.

"John, I am well aware of your status as an unattended minor. Mrs. Hudson brought it to my attention the minute she left you in that flat. If it weren't for your troubling home life and the fact your family has yet to file a missing persons report, I'd have had you shipped back in a heartbeat. Mrs. Hudson and I agreed, however, that perhaps you need my brother just as much as he needs you. Please understand though, harboring a runaway is not something either of us takes lightly. If you cause trouble you will be sent home without a moment's notice, abusive father or no. I don't expect you to be a troublemaker, but I have to take the precaution; this is my little brother we're talking about, and I have to look out for him at all costs."

John didn't think he was going to cause trouble, but he felt he would now be hyper aware of doing so. The thought of returning home was worrying to say the least. Mycroft must have sensed his distress because he flashed what must have been his attempt at a comforting smile at the boy.

"Don't worry; you've done fine so far. In fact I'm more concerned about my brother dragging you into trouble than the other way around… although there is one more thing we must talk about."

John fought against the urge to audibly gulp; the longer this conversation dragged on the more anxious he became. He managed to nod his head despite his growing discomfort to confirm that he was listening.

"While I may allow you to continue your residence at Baker Street, I cannot allow you to ignore your studies. I believe the reason you ran away was your father and not school as your grades were in top form. I presume you have no qualms with picking back up at the beginning of this coming school year? Either way, I have already filed the proper forms to have you enrolled at a nearby private academy."

That was… unexpected.

"I… wow, um, that's very kind of you but I really don't think I can afford-"

"Don't worry yourself with the cost. I have a few friends and had some strings pulled, you'll be going on a scholarship… provided you're still planning on continuing your studies in the medical field."

Now John was really surprised. How could the man know what John had been planning to do with his life? He'd only recently come to the decision and was fairly certain he hadn't told anyone.

"Don't look so surprised, I checked your computer's search history. You've been looking into medical schools. Good for you; with any luck, this will help you get in."

"I… I don't know how to thank you, this is… this is… amazing, thank you, thank you so much!"

John was grinning ear to ear now and he was certain he was the biggest arse in the world; this man was possibly one of the kindest men he'd ever met, even if he was unbelievably intimidating. Sherlock probably found his nosiness annoying and disrupting, even if he was just trying to help. It was possible that John could one day come close to feeling the same, but right now he was nothing but grateful. Never had anyone taken such an interest in his future; it was an uplifting feeling.

"No need to thank me, you've done more for my brother in the past few weeks than most have in his whole life. Just continue to be his friend and I see no need to ask for any further compensation."

John nodded his head furiously; he hadn't planned on ending his friendship with Sherlock anytime soon so it was nothing at all. After a quick goodbye in which John found himself unable to stop thanking the formidable man, who accepted his thanks with little more than a humble nod, he was on his way home. The whole ride home he could hardly contain his excitement; it was just too good to be true. A free place to live, a private education, and a new set of friends he'd come to like possibly more than the ones he'd made over a lifetime back home. It was a lot for one afternoon to say the least. He could hardly keep himself from knocking the door down when he came hurtling up the stairs and into the flat. Sherlock was perched on his chair and poised to jump, which he did once he laid eyes on John. He sprang from his seat and moved across the room in a few long strides so he could once again invade John's personal space.

"It was my brother, wasn't it."

More of a statement than a question, John thought; obviously Sherlock sorted it out somehow. There was an unmistakable bite to the detective's tone that made John flinch as he recalled the nearly forgotten icy attitude towards his brother.

"Yes, it was, Sherlock you won't believe what he's done-"

"Paid for your education? I suspected as much. He likely saw your search history as well and deduced the most probable way to ensure you'd continue living here."

John wasn't sure whether to feel creeped out that both the Holmes brothers had been looking through his computer, or happy that it had led to such a preferable situation.

"Is that a bad thing? You don't sound very happy. Should I have declined…?"

Sherlock stared at the boy for a beat before turning and crossing the room once again.

"No, do what pleases you. It's of little concern to me. This situation will be beneficial for both of us as it means that I will no longer be required to call in any favors in regards to your schooling."

John nearly pinched himself; did he hear that correctly? Since when did Sherlock concern himself with anybody's business but his own, especially if it wouldn't be conductive for any of the cases he was working on?

"You… you were going to do that?"

Sherlock turned around again to observe John. He seemed more on edge than usual. The blond tried to remain calm in hopes that the detective would explain himself.

"Of course. The question is, did Mycroft think I was going to do that? Did he think I didn't care enough, or did he know I would and beat me to it just because he could? He's been a rather insufferable show off in past…"

If it wasn't all so strange John would be flattered. Sherlock had been planning to do the same and was upset that his brother had beaten him to it. It was an oddly thoughtful gesture from the normally disinterested detective.

"Honestly, it seemed like he was more concerned about giving me an incentive to stay here. Which is stupid, because I don't really need one. I was more than willing to pay for my half of the flat and find my own way into school. Not that I'm not grateful, because believe me, I am… he did mention causing trouble though, so it could also be a way to keep an eye on me."

John actually hadn't considered that until he said it, but it did make a good deal of sense. Mycroft did seem the type to monitor people, and this would be a good way to do that. Sherlock seemed to agree as he nodded his head and then narrowed his eyes. Three calculated steps later he was close enough to John that he could feel the detective's breath brushing across his face.

"Did he threaten you?"

His voice was dark and domineering; John didn't dare try to lie his way out of this one either. In fact, he was finding it rather hard to lie to anyone in London; even considering his lack of talent for it he'd never found it _this_ difficult before.

"Well… I mean, I guess you could say that… I don't think he's planning on going through with it though. He seemed to like me well enough. I mean, he is letting me live with you."

There was a moment of silence that dragged on for what seemed like ages and John wasn't sure if he'd said something wrong or if Sherlock was just angry about his brother interfering. Both were distinct possibilities.

"He has no say in it you know."

The detective finally blurted out so quickly that John almost thought he'd imagined it.

"No say in what?"

John asked, not entirely sure he knew where this was going. With Sherlock he could be three conversations ahead of him by now, so there was no telling what the man was talking about at this point.

"Do keep up – he has no say in whether or not you live here. As long as you want to stay, there will be a place for you."

John smiled at that; he had to admit, he liked all the random attention that day. Sherlock hadn't said anything before to indicate he'd cared either way, so it was definitely reassuring to know that his affections were being returned on some level.

"Yeah, I plan on sticking around for a while, at least until you get sick of me."

John said with a light chuckle as Sherlock's eyebrows shot up about ten feet.

"Sick of you? Honestly John, self-loathing isn't a good look for anybody, much less you."

Now it was John's turn for his eyebrows to defy gravity. He hadn't actually meant it to sound like he was being down on himself. Now that he thought of it though, that was really what it boiled down to. He was insecure about the whole situation; he was sure it was too good to be true. He'd learned from experience that things like this didn't last long, especially for him, and he knew this wouldn't be any different. Sherlock was a brilliant detective with a short attention span, and it was only a matter of time before he lost interest in his adolescent flat mate. There was no way he could explain that to the detective though; he didn't understand things like emotions, he'd ask too many questions and he would never really understand entirely. Besides, John knew how these things worked; Sherlock would deny it until the one day he would admit that it was true and John would be back out on the streets. Best to just brush it off for now and not let it ruin what time they had.

"Right… I… of course, you're right. I'll just be upstairs changing, alright?"

John gave a tight smile and headed up the stairs before Sherlock had time to comment. With any luck that would be the last he heard of the discussion. He changed quickly and it wasn't before long that he heard the sweet song of Sherlock's violin once more. The detective was thinking… about what, John wasn't sure.


	4. Chapter 4

**Runaway Home**

**Chp 4**

"You can't be serious."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the bemused detective inspector. Lestrade had never been the brightest of men in the detective's eyes but he'd never taken him to be as spectacularly dim as he was acting now. He'd come over with another overly simplistic case and despite Sherlock already solving it, insisted on staying. Apparently he found it perplexing that John was living here, he almost jumped out of his skin when John walked out of the bathroom. Which the blond would later most likely refer to as an 'embarrassing' moment, it seemed that Lestrade had come to the conclusion (based off little factual evidence because really there were at least five other far more practical scenarios for a shirtless teenagers to have just emerged from his shower) that John was a rent boy. The detective rectified the situation quickly by pointing out all the obvious clues indicating that the inspector had once again deduced incorrectly. John's entrance and now confirmed flat mat status was why Lestrade was now questioning Sherlock's severity, which the detective found highly annoying.

"Of course I'm serious, why would I joke about something so asinine?"

Lestrade looked as though he were fighting the urge to pace about the room as his gaze moved between the detective and his young shirtless companion.

"You can't honestly sit there and tell me my surprise is unfounded."

"I never said your surprise was unfounded, you made that illogical assumption all on your own (you really should stop trying to put words in my mouth), I merely stated that your reaction to my new living arrangements is obtuse."

The inspector let out a huff of irritated breath and ran one of his calloused hands through his silver hair. John was still standing at the edge of the living room and was growing more uncomfortable with each passing minute.

"Maybe I should go change…"

The boy murmured and made way to leave the room in a hurry.

"No. Stay here John, sit, I have a feeling the impending conversation revolves around you, you should be present."

John stopped but he didn't make any move to sit, he simply stared at the two men with a building sense of confusion and curiosity. Sherlock smirked, the boy may not be nearly as intelligent or as eccentric as the detective, but he certainly shared that gnawing curiosity, the ever present need to _know_. He supposed that was why John always insisted on him explaining his deductions.

"Sherlock."

Lestrade said in a warning tone. The detective ignored him however and stood to cross the room and stand behind the boy. Two large hands rested on John's bare shoulders and the man they belonged to looked the inspector dead in the eye as he did it.

"Whatever you have to say you can say it in front of the both of us."

Lestrade looked at them warily before taking in a deep steadying breath.

"He's a kid. What the _hell_ are _you_ doing with a kid? Does Mycroft realize you're shacked up with a minor?"

John's muscles tensed beneath Sherlock's hands and the detective narrowed his eyes. Lestrade's presence was no longer a welcomed one as it was causing John obvious signs of distress. Sherlock also found that the inspector's attitude towards this was unpleasant and planned to do away with him as quickly as possible.

"There is little in this world that Mycroft does not know, so yes, of course he is aware. In fact he encouraged it. Besides, John is far from being a child, he is 16…and we're not '_shacked up'_."

The detective stated matter-of-factly, Lestrade seemed far from impressed though.

"16 is still a kid. I don't know what your brother is thinking, honestly, I'd be concerned for a grown man living with you let alone a kid. I hate to break it to you Sherlock but you are one of the most reckless and irresponsible people I know. You chase after criminals and conduct deadly experiments! What kind of environment is that for a kid? Do you even know how to take care of a child? Believe me when I say that kids require a lot of patience and maturity, neither of which you have. This is dangerous, for both of you. Where are his parents anyways? Don't tell me Mycroft just kidnapped some kid for your enjoyment."

John's body went unimaginably rigid at the mention of parents which caused Sherlock to tighten his grip. The inspector had moved from an annoyance to a threat. The last thing he wanted was for Lestrade to start poking his nose where it didn't belong. He couldn't shine a light to the detective when it came to murder investigations, but he wasn't completely incompetent. If he were so inclined he was capable of finding John's parents and informing them of their son's location. That was something the detective did not intend on happening.

"His parents are of no concern of yours. Any way, he's not some infant, he can care for himself. My lifestyle choices make no impact on him what so ever, he thinks for himself."

Lestrade shook his head in disapproval and John shifted uncomfortably in Sherlock's grasp. The detective bit back a snarl, didn't the inspector realize just how stupid and pointless this was? John liked it here, more surprisingly, _Sherlock_ liked him there, couldn't he see that?

"You honestly believe that? Sherlock, your brother has more authority than I could ever dream of and if you're telling the truth about his approval then I'm sure he'll make it impossible for me to find his parents, but maybe you should. Think about it, actually think about something other than yourself or your cases and your experiments, we're talking about this kid's life. Do you really want him getting caught in the cross fire? What if you have another break in? I know you've had them, even if you didn't report it; I'm not as blind as you think. What if he gets hurt? You have no right to put someone else's child at risk! We're just talking about the big stuff too, what about the little things? Kid's need to be cared for, not sent off on their own. Are you going to make sure he's going to school or keep him out of trouble? Can you even make sure he gets fed? I've seen your fridge before, and food isn't normally in the majority. Jesus, have you thought this through at all?"

For a moment Sherlock's mind drew a blank because no, no he had not. John did not appear to be a child to him, he was smart (well, as smart compared to the average mind) and wise in a lot of ways. There were times when he even surpassed Sherlock in his insights (not that he'd admit that). So caring for him hadn't really posed itself as a priority. He thought back on his own self at that age, arrogant and self involved without any regard for his own personal safety…actually, he hadn't changed much. But he was far more volatile back then, took unnecessary risks for the thrill, he'd gotten himself involved with drugs and bad group of kids. He had Mycroft and his mother looking out for him too, all John had was…John. Supposing he made a wrong choice, there would be no one there to help him out of it. Well, that wasn't true, because Sherlock knew that there was no way he'd let anything happen to the one person he'd come to like. He didn't understand it, but John was special and something deep down told him that letting something happen to that boy was not an option. John coughed breaking the silence and the glare Lestrade and Sherlock had been exchanging.

"You know, I am standing right here. You're talking as if I'm off someplace else…I'm sure you only have the best of intentions inspector, but honestly I'm better off here. I'm safer than I've ever been I think. My house was always filled with criminals, my dad and his friends, and I got-um-hurt on more than one occasion. So I know how to handle myself around the type. I'm not the type to run off and cause trouble either, that was my sister, I know how to keep myself in line. Plus, I know how to fend for myself and I've always gotten to school on my own before. It may be hard to believe sir, but living with Sherlock these past two months is the most cared for I've ever felt. Mrs. Hudson sees to it that I'm fed and don't look like too much of a barmy git when I leave the flat…and Sherlock keeps me company and even has taught me a few things."

John sounded more confident then Sherlock would have presumed him to be. More shocking was that he even found himself oddly touched by his words, and as the boy talked there was a sort of warmth spreading through his chest. It was inexplicable but John some how had found a way to reassure him and put everything perfectly in perspective. John was proficient enough to see to his own needs, he was not the fragile boy Lestrade had made him out to be. However, some of the inspector's words still rang true. He would have to put more effort forth to keep John safe. John wasn't a trouble maker that was true, but he was curious, and he could see the gleam in his eye that longed for a thrill. With all the unsavory character's Sherlock attracted it wasn't impossible to think one might get the better of the boy, trick him and inevitably hurt him. Most likely as a means of revenge against the detective, he had put several murders behind bars; it could be that they had some friends looking for retribution. He'd like to think John would avoid any unfamiliar situation that could lead to harm, but he _had _climbed into his brother's car.

Despite what was going on in the detective's mind the inspector actually seemed some what satisfied. He nodded his head appreciatively at the boy and Sherlock could feel a swell of pride, as if John had passed some important test. Lestrade gave a short farewell and was on his way in no time. This seemed to relieve John considerably as his muscles relaxed and his breathing became less controlled. He stepped out of Sherlock's clutches and the detective felt an almost immediate longing to capture those shoulders again, to feel their warmth radiating through the palms of his hands.

"Wow, he was grumpy huh?"

John chuckled turning to face Sherlock who simply shrugged in response. He was finding it hard to form words at the moment he was so confused. He'd never wanted to touch another person, never felt this need to feel his skin against another's. It was utterly puzzling and infuriating. Why was John's open chest so inviting? Why did he have this undying urge to just…_touch_?

"Oh, hey, by the way if you're planning on people coming over why don't you warn me before I head into the shower? I could have brought some clothes in there with me instead of walking out like a bloody wanker in nothing but my underpants."

Sherlock couldn't help but crack a smile and John shoved him lightly in retaliation. With that the boy headed up the stairs to his room, no doubt to get dressed. Sherlock found that his smile didn't leave with him though; it was still firmly planted on his face. It was odd feeling so attached to someone, but it wasn't unwelcome. In fact it was rather nice. It still mystified the detective, but he figured he would have plenty of time to discover the meaning behind all of these smiles, warm tinglings, and the strange sensation to reach out and touch the boy. He would have all the time in the world, because as far as he was concerned John wasn't going anywhere for a long time. He'd see to that, he would prove Lestrade wrong, he would take good care of John and in return John would continue to create these strangely fantastic new emotions.


	5. Chapter 5

**Runaway Home**

**Chp 5**

It had been a normal day, or at least as normal as things get at 221b, before the case had started. John had grown accustomed to case files and crime scene photos, he had even gotten used to the detective bursting into his room at three in the morning with his deductions. This case was something else though; it was nothing like the boy had ever seen. Sherlock was in top form, he was rattling off deductions like crazy and chasing down clue after clue, and yet the answers still eluded him. The best part of all of it however was that he'd asked for John's help. Simple tasks, nothing too extreme, just for a second opinion on most of his observations, but no…those weren't the best part, the best part was he'd taken him with him to a crime scene! God, he could barely contain his excitement! He should have been bored, or scared, or grossed out, or even just plain confused. But no, he was teeming with excitement. It had been by accident really, not intentional on the detective's part at all but it happened none the less. John didn't know it yet, but being at that crime scene was the turning point, it was where everything would change. What he doesn't know is that if it weren't for that rather insignificant event, he would have led a long and boring life as a doctor with a little boy named John jr. and a little girl named something equally as boring such as Suzie, and he'd have a lovely wife who made jammy-dodgers and attended all of the school events. Yes, and he would have been happy, although, just a tad bit bored. He didn't know about any of that, not the little boy nor the jammy-dodgers, and he never would, because it was on this day in which the detective had by some random twist of fate decided to treat John to dinner and wound up leading him through a particularly strange string of suicides…

"Sherlock, you can't bring the kid to a crime scene!"

Lestrade hollered as the detective and his young friend strolled into the run down apartment complex. John gave a nervous smile to the disgruntled inspector as Sherlock ignored the protests.

"Did you here me? This is no place for a kid; this is an official police investigation! It's bad enough I let you in, I can't have some kid tampering with evidence!"

Lestrade pressed chasing after the tall man. Sherlock turned curtly to look at the inspector face to face.

"No? I'd have thought that's what you would have liked, seeing as all you do is employ people who tamper with my evidence."

Lestrade crossed his arms in a huff and eyed the detective dangerously. If Sherlock hadn't instructed John earlier to just leave this to him, he probably would have given in right then. He had to agree (no matter how much it pained him) that it didn't seem appropriate to let anybody, much less a minor, into a crime scene. Sherlock insisted that he didn't want to bother with sending John home in the case that this was just another 'boring' case, in which case he'd be done quickly and have plenty of time to still take John to dinner.

"Your evidence? Nice, listen I can't go breaking all of the rules for you, just send him home."

Sherlock took an opposing step forward so that he was looking down at the inspector while John made himself busy studying the laces on his sneakers.

"No. He's with me."

With that the detective spun around and grabbed hold of John's shoulder as he led the boy up the stairs. The inspector wasn't far behind and he made his way up the steps in rapid procession.

"I don't bloody care who he's _with_, this is my crime scene!"

When the three made it to the top of the steps Sherlock once again brought his fearsome gaze upon the grey haired man.

"Do you want my help or not? Honestly, I'd probably be done by now if it weren't for all your chattering."

Lestrade held his stare for a long time before letting out a resentful grunt, the defeated man waved the detective and his boy into the room where the woman was found dead. Sherlock smirked and John nodded his head appreciatively before they entered. As the blond passed through the doorway he became aware of three very startling facts. The first one was the most obvious, which was that there was a dead woman on the floor. John wasn't stupid, he'd known the woman would be there, but knowing it and seeing it are two different things. He'd never seen a dead body up close before, he'd never even been to a funeral, and there was something deeply unsettling to him now that he was in the presence of a lifeless person. The woman dressed head to toe in pink seemed to scream out to him, it made his blood run cold. There was nothing he could do to help, she was already gone. That wasn't completely true though, he could help Sherlock find her killer. Which brought him to his second observation: Sherlock. Or, rather, the look on Sherlock's face. His eyes were lit up with something John couldn't quite place, it was a mix of curiosity, deduction, and…joy. He'd known Sherlock to be happy with a new case, he enjoyed the hunt, but he hadn't imagined he'd look so happy to see an innocent person lying dead. John had only known Sherlock for a little over two months now, but he'd lived with him, ate with him, talked with him…he was fairly certain he would know if the man found enjoyment from the death of others. So the gleeful look that overtook the taller man's features was certainly startling. He figured that was just part of the game perhaps, he probably didn't see it as a dead woman, she was just another clue to finding the killer, another piece to the puzzle. The third thing John noticed was far more alarming believe it or not. What shocked John the most was not being in the presence of a very dead woman, or his friend seeming to take far too much interest in said dead woman, it was that he was _excited_. He got chills watching Sherlock deduce, trying to solve the riddle, catch the bad guy, better still was the thought of them _catching_ this guy. John wasn't sure that's how it usually worked, but he'd known Sherlock to have to become physical with suspects, or to go running all over London searching for them. So while it may or may not have been common place, John let himself fantasize about scouring the city in search of the mad genius who'd gotten three people to commit suicide, about finding him and feeling the satisfaction of pounding his fists into the murder's face. He found himself smiling at the thought but quickly corrected himself; it wouldn't do for Lestrade to think he was some sort of psychopath.

His attentions were soon drawn outwards as Sherlock began rattling off all of his findings to the questioning inspector. Something about a string of lovers, a dirty ring, a wet coat…it was fascinating but also just a bit above John's level of thought. He wondered idly if he would always be so far behind Sherlock, or if the man found that irritating. He definitely found most unintelligent people insufferable; the two officers who'd greeted them coming in were a good example. Sherlock hadn't paid them much attention though; they'd barely had time to speak before he started rattling off deductions about their devious romantic attachment.

"What case?"

Lestrade's insistent tone pulled John away from his thoughts and once again on the two men inspecting the dead woman.

"The case, her case, the one she came in with. It has to be here somewhere, what have your people done with it?"

The inspector rubbed his eyes tiredly as the detective flew about the room searching for this case.

"There wasn't any case Sherlock, there is no case."

Sherlock stopped abruptly and for a moment John thought perhaps his brain had simply shut down. The detective recovered quickly, much to the relief of the boy, and began leading John out of the room.

"Brilliant! Come along John!"

Not that he would have argued, but John found that he didn't have much choice in leaving the room as Sherlock pushed him along quite forcefully.

"Wait Sherlock! What about the case?"

Lestrade called down from the top of the stairs as the pair made their way out of the building. Without missing beat Sherlock snapped around to look up at the man.

"Pink!"

He shouted up at the inspector and then continued to shove John out of the building. The blond managed to stifle a shriek when he stumbled out of the door to come face to face with the very officers who previously seemed hell bent to keep the detective and himself out of the building earlier.

"Hello freak, done making a mess of our crime scene?"

The woman quipped blocking their path down the steps.

"Sally, please do get out of the way, I haven't the time for this in the slightest. Unlike you lot, I've got a murder to investigate."

Sherlock retorted trying to maneuver around Sally only to be cut off by the sickly faced man to her right.

"Surprisingly enough we're not as concerned about that psychopath as we are of the one in front of us."

For a moment John became concerned that the strange man was referring to himself but when Sherlock's grip on the shoulder he'd been pushing moments ago tightened the boy looked backwards to see that the detective's face had contorted in an odd manor. So the comment had been directed at the taller man, which made far more sense if he thought of it since the two officers had never met John before and it would be hard for them to back such a theory. At any rate he wasn't exactly pleased with the revelation, in fact he found himself more than just a bit peeved with their attitude towards his flat mate.

"Is there a point here Anderson or are you two just intentionally wasting my time for no particular reason?"

Sherlock asked with a profound amount of contempt dripping from his words. Sally stepped forward to crowd them in the door way more than previously causing John to flush a bit as he was practically sand-whiched between the female officer and his tall friend.

"Yeah, Lestrade told us about your little rent boy here and we thought it our civic duty to inform you we'll be keeping an even closer eye on you. Don't think that we won't launch a full scale investigation if he so much as gets a peculiar scratch."

John's discomfort for this situation only grew, not only because of Sally's crude comment. Although, that was certainly a part of it as he was growing more and more displeased with these two both accusing Sherlock of being some sort of monster he clearly is not and of the theory that John was some rent boy. Another very different sort of discomfort started to arise when she spoke as well. Sherlock appeared to have noticed the boy's uneasiness with being squashed between the arguing adults and had decided the best remedy to the situation was to pull his small form flush against his own, so to widen the gap between him and Sally.

"You'd like that wouldn't you? To find some reason to pin me with a crime. Best of luck to you, because I assure you if I wanted to commit a crime there definitely wouldn't be enough evidence to convict me with your tiny intellects."

The two seemed to be sedated for the time being as they stopped talking and simply glared at the detective. Sherlock didn't stand there for long, instead surged forward with John under his arm to break through the gate they'd formed at the top of the stairs. They were silent other than their breathing for quite some time after that as they made their way towards the main road. Sherlock's grasp hadn't loosened any and it was starting to concern the boy. Had their comments made an impact on the detective? Surely he would be smart enough to ignore anything those idiots said. None the less, John felt it imperative to lighten the mood some how.

"Those two are some massive pricks, eh?"

The tall man didn't respond, nor did he make any acknowledgement that he'd even been listening, he just carried on dragging John through the streets.

"Sherlock? Are you-"

John's voice was drowned out by the screech of tires as a taxi pulled up along side them, at Sherlock's request it seemed given his signature wave towards the driver. The detective opened the back door and forcefully pushed the boy into the seat.

"Hey, what's the matter with you?"

John asked rubbing his now sore arm.

"You should be at home, go and get some rest. I'll be back later; I've just got to go take care of some things."

Just as the man moved to shut the door John's arm shot out to wedge it open.

"Wait, I can help, I could come with you…keep you company?"

It was a stretch, but what could he say? Don't leave; I don't like being away from you? Please, I really want to find something to hit? No, the detective would either laugh at his eagerness or scold it.

"You would only slow me down I'm afraid, good night John."

And with that the detective shut the door with a loud thunk sending the boy hurtling towards Baker Street in no time. Despite the time and John's overwhelming desire to burry himself beneath his covers, he found himself instead climbing the stairs and laying himself down on the sofa. He pulled out his mobile and laid it down on the arm of the chair, that way if the detective called for his help he would be more than ready to answer. For now though he decided to rest his eyes and let sleep over take him.

* * *

A few hours later John woke up to the sound of his phone and the steady breath of one very close flat mate. He nearly jumped out of his skin when he became _very_ aware of his new sleeping arrangements. At some point during his nap on the sofa Sherlock had placed himself underneath the boy so that John's blond hair was tickling the underside of his chin and his face was pressed into one of the detective's lean pectorals. If two large hand hadn't been holding him in place he would have fallen off the seat in his panic. He'd never slept in the same bed with somebody, and he'd certainly never slept in such an intimate position before. This was completely new and strange and oddly fantastic. John was sure that he loved the detective; he had since week three, but was he…_in love_? God, it seemed like such a ridiculous question. There were some signs, hints, but he had been certain of his heterosexual status and wasn't so sure he was willing to let that go. He'd never considered the alternative, and it was a scary thought. Kids in his home town had never been met with open arms if they 'came out' and John wasn't so sure that those same guidelines didn't apply to here in London. Besides, the detective was in his twenties, he wouldn't be interested in some sixteen year old. So John simply did his best to slip out of the tall man's grasp with out waking him. Which was odd as well, he usually never had to worry about waking Sherlock during an investigation. Something was up, and John would have to do his best to get to the bottom of it. Once free from Sherlock's sleepy vice grip John reached over to check his phone which had been moved to the coffee table. On the screen there was an indication for a text message from an unknown number. Not uncommon for Mycroft to send him a message from some unrecognizable phone. He opened it and eyed the message curiously. It read: come with me. Odd, even for Mycroft, but not so out of the ordinary for the boy to question it. He gave the detective a lingering glance and wondered if he should wake him and inform him of his departure. However, it was rare that he slept and he probably needed it desperately. So instead he opted for leaving a quick note lying on the coffee table in front of him.

That taken care of, John put his jacket back on and headed down the stairs, only stepping lightly on the third creaky step. When he made it out the door however, something unsettling formed in the pit of his stomach. Mycroft had sent a taxi? That was really strange, very out of character. He shrugged it off, must have been something in the water, and it was making _both_ of the Holmes boys barmy. He couldn't shake the bad feeling he got when he came closer to the cab though. Mycroft worked in mysterious ways he supposed and hopped inside the taxi with little protest. If he'd known who this man was he would have run at the sight of the cab, he would have run away from that cold blooded old man and straight into a future with his lamely named children. This isn't a story about boring children and bored doctors though, and that is why instead of running, the boy sat in the back of that cab and waited.

**Hello! Things are getting heated now! Thanks for all the reviews everybody and please feel free to check out my tumblr (carpesherlock) to see the fan art I've drawn for this story.**


	6. Chapter 6

**Runaway Home**

**Chp 6**

**This would have been up sooner but…tumblr. **

After sending John off in the cab Sherlock walked farther away from the crime scene and made his way into town. His mind was whirling with a myriad of thoughts as he made his way across the street. He knew he had to focus on the investigation; he needed to solve it, catch the killer. There was just something so infuriatingly all consuming about John though. He was able to concentrate enough to know that he had to find the woman's case. There were three possible locations the killer would have dumped it and all of them were relatively close. As he made his way to the first skip and found that his ability to concentrate was slipping. His mind was dwelling on the crime scene, and not on the clues, but on John, always on John. He hadn't thought the whole thing through; it was all a real bloody mess if you asked him. As he began searching through the first dumpster bin the look on John's face as they entered the room crossed his mind. He'd looked nervous, at the time Sherlock had observed it but didn't process because he'd been so focused on the body. He knew that he tended to ignore people and various other things such as food and drink while on a case, but he'd never felt bad about it until now. John had looked nervous, maybe even a bit skittish. And why shouldn't he? There was a dead body in there! Sherlock had taken a sixteen year old into a room with a murdered woman. Not any sixteen year old though, one who had obviously suffered past trauma. The one person he's coming to care about and he goes and causes further mental scarring! Lestrade had been right; he didn't know what he was doing. He didn't even begin to consider John until they'd been stopped by Anderson and Donovan at the steps. Normally their comments are to be ignored completely, but tonight something about them left a sting. They were wrong about him planning to harm John, that would _never_ happen, but he was putting him in danger. That and how Sally had invaded the boy's personal space.

It had made Sherlock the most driven to kill her he'd ever been. John was clearly uncomfortable with yelling, or arguing, or any sort of impassioned speech between adults really, and Sally had caused him extreme discomfort as far as he could tell. He didn't like it when people got too close to John, but he liked it even less if John didn't like it. So he'd pulled the boy against himself and come to another heart breaking conclusion. Sherlock made him uncomfortable as well didn't he? At least when he was yelling like he had been. The detective had known himself to be a bit frightening at times, he'd intimidated many suspects in the past, but did John find him scary?

Sherlock shook his head to send that thought away for the time being. He didn't like it, and it was distracting him. The second location had been the right one and Sherlock spent only a moment or two there before finding the pink case. As he hailed a cab back to the flat he wondered what John must have been thinking when Sherlock had sent him off. Perhaps he'd done something 'not good' as John would say. He was almost never sure of those things. John probably wanted space from the detective though, even if he wouldn't make his opinion known. He'd more than likely been scared of the crime scene and of Sherlock and just wanted to go home and be alone. Sherlock made his way up the stairs and braced himself for pained looks and feigned indifference. John would pretend it didn't matter, that the case and the yelling hadn't bothered him, that he didn't even want to go out to dinner in the first place. All of which he just knew were lies. He'd allow John to say it though; he'd allow him to try to convince both the detective and himself. When he walked through the door however it was not an anxious John that greeted him, but a sleeping one. John had fallen asleep on the sofa it appeared and had placed his phone carefully on the arm of it. Sherlock felt another one of his strange chest tightening feelings, the thought of John waiting by his phone, probably for Sherlock to call, it was perfect. John cared, he really cared, not like so many others who valued Sherlock's mind and ability to solve murders, they idolized him sure, but John cared for _him_. John wanted to help him, to protect him, to be his friend. He let a lazy smile spread across his face, his only friend, his best friend in the world.

Just then, John began to stir. Sherlock straightened in his chair to get a good look at the boy. If he was waking up it might be best to talk to him about this evening, at least apologize for dinner. John however did not wake up; he just started shaking his head as a dream took hold of his body and mind. Sherlock stood from his chair and walked over to the sofa to stand closer to the blond for closer observation. John emitted a weak whimpering sound that tore at the detective's heart. He fell to his knees and cupped the boy's face in his hands to stop it from thrashing against the sofa.

"John? John, are you alright? You're dreaming John."

John whimpered again and tried to free himself from the detective's hold. Should he let go? Was he somehow making this worse? Sherlock entered his mind palace quickly to see if he had anything useful to help John. He didn't really know anything about nightmares though; he'd never needed it for a case. It had never seemed important before, but now it was crucial. He cursed himself silently and promised to read up on nightmares the moment he'd solved the case.

"It's ok John, please, wake up."

He cooed softly hoping to gently remove John from his invisible terrors. John continued to whimper though, and his whimpering soon turned to moaning. This wasn't working! He tried to hold John still and repeated his name, praying that the boy would wake up.

"S'lock?"

Sherlock's eyes widened immensely. Was he waking up? Or was he simply calling out the detective's name in his sleep. John had been known to talk in his sleep.

"John? It's me, I'm right here, what is it?"

He stroked the sweat off the boy's forehead and waited for a reply. It felt like ages before John finally went very still and parted his lips ever so slightly.

"Help."

Was what the boy barely whispered, if the detective hadn't been listening so intently he would have missed it. What he wouldn't have missed however was what happened almost immediately after. John began trembling all over and his breaths were coming out in short pained huffs. He was hyperventilating and cutting off his supply for air fast, it would become a problem and soon. Sherlock acted quickly to try and ease the boy's suffering. With one rapid movement he lifted the blond up and positioned himself underneath him on the sofa. He lined up their bodies so that the back of John's head rested on his shoulder and situated his arms beneath John's then splayed his hand's across the boy's chest. Hopefully he could help increase the air flow while simultaneously reducing the shaking. For a long time they sat there like that, John shaking and Sherlock praying for it to stop. When it finally did he let out a sigh of relief. As John continued to sleep, far more peacefully now, Sherlock became worried. How often did this happen? John had to know, he just had to. His mind raced with possible solutions, ways that he could fix this.

Then, unexpectedly, John turned to his side and scooted his head to rest right beneath the detective's chin. His heart stopped. John nuzzled Sherlock's chest and took a deep breath in before letting out a contented sigh. Sherlock was certain he'd had a heart attack or something. This was too surreal. Had he really made it better? Was John sleeping peacefully now? From what he observed it appeared so. He wasn't sure why, but it felt nice having John lay there, even if he should find it uncomfortable. John's body was warm and soft; it made the detective feel something…_fuzzy._ Odd, he'd never felt this before. He liked it though, almost as much as he liked John sleeping here. Quickly he glanced over at the phone, no one had texted. Unfortunate, he'd have to find another way to locate the criminal, but for now he would rest. Normally sleeping during a case would be sacrilege, but he'd make an exception this time. After all, there was no telling if he'd ever get this chance again. As he drifted off to sleep he hoped he would, because he knew from now on there wouldn't be a single night he wouldn't long for this.

* * *

Cold. That was the first thing his mind registered. It was cold. It was cold, and there was no face pressed against his chest anymore. The detective bolted upright. Where had John gone? He looked about the flat, his coat and shoes were gone. The clock read 3 in the morning though. There was something very 'not good' about this. A note! Sherlock thought quickly, John always left a note when he went out. It didn't take long for him to find the flimsy piece of paper strewn across the coffee table. He snatched it up quick to read it.

_Hey Sherlock! _

_Had to pop out for a bit, seems your brother needs to have a chat with me. As I with him, seeing as he can't even be bothered with manners anymore! Honestly he's almost as bad as you sometimes, demanding me to meet him at all hours of the night. Anyway I assume it has something to do with me being at the crime scene or our new sleeping arrangement (you're going to have to explain that to me by the way). _

Sherlock crumpled the note in his fist. Mycroft? Mycroft was away to Korea on business. His plane wouldn't even land for another four hours. John wouldn't lie though, he had no reason to. John wasn't one to just go off on his own at night. It couldn't have been that he was upset with how he'd woken up (although he might have been) because then he either would have clearly stated it in the note or ignored its occurrence all together. Sherlock's mind raced, why would John leave such a note and then run off into the night? No. No, it was too obvious, he should have known it from the start! He'd used John's phone to send the message! So it was John's phone that would receive the reply, and it had been John who read it! The killer must have wanted to meet; he had texted back with some location? No, no, think! John thought it was Mycroft; he came to the flat in some sort of vehicle to pick him up. Yes ok, so they were in a car. They had to have left from between one thirty to three. God, that's a big window. One thirty would have been over an hour and a half ago, the killer wouldn't have gone too far, travel time wouldn't consist of most of that, so that just left John time with the murderer. Shit, fuck, no! Concentrate! The killer had the phone, that was good. Actually no, it wasn't good, because that's what got John into this mess in the first place! No, wrong, Sherlock is what got John into this mess. If he had any say in it though, he'd be the one to get him out.

His mind was racing at maximum velocity piecing together the clues, solving the puzzle, saving John. Finally, it hit him like a ton of bricks. The phone, the girl's name, it all made sense. No time to waste on celebration, no time at all. Without a moments hesitation he leapt forward to retrieve John's computer. He pulled up the website as fast a their internet connection would allow and quickly typed in the username and password. Next he just had to activate the GPS. God, it was taking so long! His heart was racing and all he could think about was John taking one of those pills, John's body lying cold and still in some abandoned house, John being _dead_. No, he couldn't think like that, it wouldn't help anything, he had to focus! When the map finally loaded the detective committed it to memory within seconds and then made a mad dash out the door, almost leaving his shoes and coat behind. He hailed a cab in record time and nearly screamed the directions out at the driver. As he sat restlessly in the back he found himself reciting one solemn prayer under his breath repeatedly.

"_Please God, let him live_."


	7. Chapter 7

**Runaway Home**

**Chp 7**

**Ok, ignore any grammatical mistakes for now, I'm tired and decided to post this before editing. God help you if you're trying to read this.**

_Sod this. _

Not a particularly elegant phrase, but John felt it fit the mood in a number of ways. For one, there's not much else one can say when they've discovered that they willingly walked into the cab of a murdering psychopath at two thirty in the morning. Then there was the irony, the utter fucking irony. He'd runaway from home so his father couldn't kill him, so that this strange old man could? Sod this. He refused to let himself die tonight; he'd worked too hard for this new life to loose it now.

Sherlock wouldn't sleep long and then he'd come for John…he shouldn't have been sleeping at all. The detective never slept while he was on a case, so why was he tonight? Why was it underneath John for that matter? Did he even realize the societal implications of sleeping with another man, snuggled up on a couch, people would talk. Worse was that he hadn't minded it, he had liked it even. God, here he was in the back of a serial killer's car and he was worried about if he liked snuggling with his flat mate or not? He _had_ to get his priorities straight.

The car pulled into a university parking lot and John gulped audibly. He wasn't sure what was next, he wasn't sure what to expect. All he knew is that there was some sort of pill involved. His heart started racing as the cabby stepped out of the taxi and started to make his way around to John's door. When the door opened John looked wide eyed up at the older man who waved a gun in his face. His blood was running cold in his veins and for a second he wasn't sure he could even get up on his feet. The cabby pushed the gun closer to the boy's face and that was enough of an incentive to get his feet back on line.

Walking into the building and into the empty class room felt like a death march, which was appropriate. He was being led to the room he would probably be killed in. The cabby motioned for him to take a seat across from him at one of the empty tables. John's hands were trembling now so he held them out of the older man's line of sight, he didn't want to give him the satisfaction.

"Well this is mighty unfortunate for you mate, isn't it?"

The cabby said after an agonizingly long minute. John wasn't sure how to respond, because, yeah it was, wasn't it?

"Thought it'd been Sherlock Holmes I'd been talking to, what were you thinking sending that text? How'd you even get the number?"

Of course. Sherlock borrowed his phone. That explained a hell of a lot. This guy was responding to whatever message the detective had sent him, not just texting John out of the blue, which made way more sense.

"It was. You _were_ talking to Sherlock Holmes."

John growled out. Not sure if he was angrier at the detective or himself. Why did Sherlock have to use his stuff all the time? What was wrong with his phone? But still, why did John just have to blindly walk into dangerous situations all the time? You'd think a boy of his intelligence would have realized something was amiss, but no.

"What? No, don't tell me that the famous Sherlock Holmes is some bloody teenager."

The man spit out with a vicious leer.

"_I'm_ not him…he's my flat mate. Obviously he used my phone to message you…I thought you were someone else…"

John trails off, slightly embarrassed admitting his utter cock up to his killer.

"What kind of boy hops into a cab at two thirty in the morning because a text told him to, one who's number he didn't even recognize? If I'm to believe Mr. Holmes hasn't shown it to you…are you rent boy or something?"

The murderer asked out of pure curiosity. No sarcasm, not a hint of jest, just pure unbridled curiosity. John's hand's balled into fists.

"I'm not a bloody rent boy! I _refuse_ to die today without convincing at least one person in this gigantic city that I am not in fact a sodding rent boy, and no, I am not _shagging_ Sherlock Holmes! I don't even know if I'd want to, to be honest, I'm a bit confused about it and him in general. That's not the point though! The point is I'm just a normal kid from a small town who_ happens_ to live with an older guy and hop into cabs at odd hours of the night and not a bloody rent boy!"

John shouted at the older man who looked taken back. He soon recovered though and nodded his head with consent.

"Fine…can I ask you a question?"

John eyed the man suspiciously.

"Is this part of the trick?"

The cabbie's face contorted ferociously.

"It's not a trick. It's a game of logic and strategy. But no, we're not there yet. This is more of a…personal question."

There was no doubt that he was a frail ball of nerves at this point, just sparks of anger and terror going off in his mind. However he didn't want the killer to see that, so he did his best to appear calm. John eased a little bit though, this was good he thought, perhaps he could buy himself some time. He was carefully optimistic and tried to hide this fact from his murderer with an eye roll.

"Sure I suppose, what would you like to know?"

The man's face lit up in a way that made John very uneasy.

"What's he like? I proper genius I know, I've learned as much from his fan, but what's he _like_? I was really rather hoping to have a chat with him, but something tells me he won't be so willing once I've killed his flat mate."

John was thrown off guard by that one, and more than a little panicked about the topic of his inevitable demise being mentioned so nonchalantly. He wanted to know what the detective was like? That was odd. And Sherlock had a fan? Who becomes a fan of a consulting detective? Other than their teenage flat mates that is…He had to answer it though, he couldn't spare the time.

"He's a bloody horror. He knows your whole life story just by looking at you and he's not afraid of announcing all the graphic details. He doesn't do the laundry, or the hoovering, or any cleaning really. He doesn't have any manners. Oh, and he's oddly fascinated by bees…other than that, there's not much I'm sure I understand well enough to explain."

You wouldn't think that being too honest with the man that was about to kill you was really a good idea. You would think that the best course of action would be to make up an interesting story to prolong the questioning. John wasn't one for making up stories though, he was a terrible liar. Besides, someone ought to know some of his less fond thoughts about the detective, and really at this point, his options were limited.

"Well, he's a complicated man, not likely you'd understand. You're just a boy and not a very bright one either…did I have him confused? Was he thrown off at all?"

The man continued on sounding just a bit eager for John's response. John smirked.

"No, as always he was five steps ahead of everyone…including you."

The boy stated smugly and if he was honest, just a bit proudly. He didn't have to worry about lying on that one either, Sherlock was the brightest of them all, and he never doubted it. The older man didn't look as pleased and his grimace soon wiped the smile off of the blonde's face.

"I doubt that. Bet he hadn't worked out how I do it, did he?"

The cabbie's voice was rigid but laced with what John could only assume was disappointment.

"I wouldn't know, he didn't really discuss it with me. I'm sure it's all _quite_ clever."

John said with an exuberance of sarcasm which he'd picked up from the detective. The killer reached into his pockets and pulled out two bottles, each with one speckled pill.

"Well, let me give you a demonstration."

John's stomach dropped, this was not going so well, Sherlock wasn't there yet and he didn't appear to be showing up any time soon. The man placed the two bottles on the table and pushed one to rest directly in front of John.

"Now…tell me which one has the poison, boy? Pick which ever one you think is safe, then you take it, and I take whatever one is left."

John studied the pills, they were identical as far as he could tell, he doubted even Sherlock could spot a difference between the two. He picked up the one in front of him to observe it more closely, as if the answer were hidden inside. There was no way of knowing, so John decided he'd quell some other curiosities first.

"Wait, before I take this…can I ask _you_ a question?"

The boy questioned sternly. For a moment all the killer did was stare, but after a while he motioned for John to proceed.

"Why are you doing this? And what does it have to do with Sherlock, or any of those people?"

John asked earnestly because he really couldn't die without knowing. He couldn't die not understanding why it'd happened, or what was waiting for Sherlock once he did.

"Well…I suppose telling a dead man your secrets won't hold much penalty…let's just say that fan of Sherlock's made me an offer too tempting to pass up. These murders are all some sort of game to him, to observe Sherlock. Each one I leave for the detective, the more money will be left to my kid's when I pass."

The old man explained with a sense of accomplishment, John furrowed his brow in response.

"Who is this 'fan'?"

That he really just had to know. Who was this person that was so obsessed with his flat mate? He didn't like the idea of this psychopath taking in interest in Sherlock, not one bit.

"Not at liberty to discuss it I'm afraid."

"Please, I'm about to be dead soon, you might as well."

John offered up hopefully. The man smiled quickly before looking about himself.

"His name is…Moriarty. That's all I can tell you I'm afraid."

John nodded, it was better then nothing. He returned his gaze to the bottle in his hand which trembled. He wasn't ready to die, but he hadn't much choice. The gun hadn't left the man's side, and he knew what it was for. He'd shoot John if he didn't just take the pill. Slowly John unscrewed the top and watched as the older man did the same. His heart was beating heavily and his hands were sweating tremendously, but he made no move to stop. He would be brave, he'd not go out with a whimper.


	8. Chapter 8

**Runaway Home**

**Chp 8 **

**Thank you for all the lovely reviews! Hope you enjoy this next chapter.**

Sherlock ran through the empty school building at a record pace, rushing passed classrooms and stairwells. They'd be somewhere private, some place they could be left alone. Judging by dampness of the floors they had to be on the east wing of the building. That would be where the custodial crew started their cleaning, once finished there anyone could sneak in undisturbed until the morning came. The more wet the floor, the more recent the mopping, hence John being in the east wing. His mind overviewed the facts a few times to assure himself of their validity, he couldn't make a mistake, not tonight. John's life was at stake and he couldn't bare the thought of not making it on time. In fact he had to delete his calculations on the probability John was already dead several times just to maintain focus.

He skidded to a halt when out of the corner of his eye he saw a sliver of light peeking out beneath a door. Without a moment to loose the detective hurtled towards the door and flung it open. Once open he could see into the vast classroom where both John and an old cab driver were seated at a large table. John looked at him with wide eyes and a gaping mouth and the cabbie merely smirked. Sherlock narrowed his eyes and then…his heart stopped. He staggered on his feet and could feel his face pale considerably. Before he realized what he was doing he had started to run towards John. He stopped just in front of the shocked boy and stared down at him with eyes the size of dinner plates. John's mouth was moving, he was trying to speak, but the words wouldn't come.

"John."

Sherlock croaked and he flinched as the empty bottle in John's hand fell out of his grasp with a crash on the floor.

"Sherlock, I didn't-I thought…"

His voice trailed off and all Sherlock could do was shake his head, refusing to accept this.

"No, no, this…it's going to be fine, we're taking you to a hospital now!"

With that Sherlock hauled the boy up from his seat and began racing hand in hand back towards the door.

"I wouldn't bother with that, mate. It won't do your friend any good."

The old man called out. Sherlock pivoted on his heel to glare at the man with a burning intensity.

"And why is that?"

He spit out venomously. The old man gave him a polite smile and straightened out his shirt before speaking.

"Pills take an affect forty seconds after consumption. Anywhere from five to twenty after that death follows."  
Sherlock flinched at the word death, as did John. For a moment he wondered if the cabbie would make up the story, but he was adept at reading faces and could tell that the man was speaking the truth. Part of him wanted to fight it, to rush John to hospital despite the effectiveness of the drug. When he thought about John having to spend his last moments in a hurried panic just to make the detective feel more at ease, he knew that he couldn't do it. It wouldn't help John; it would just make him feel more productive. He turned to the boy and cupped his face in his hand.

"It's going to be ok."

He tried his hardest to sound reassuring, but his voice was faltering. John nodded but his eyes were becoming moist and his lips trembled. That face, that terrified and completely innocent face, it made him want to scream. It made him want to kill the old man, and he would, soon.

"I'm so sorry Sherlock."

The boy gasped as a single tear streaked across his tanned cheek. Sherlock could feel his own tears threatening to spill over. It wasn't fair, if he'd been just a moment earlier! John was too young; he was too kind and perfect for something like this to happen to him! The detective reached forward and pulled the boy in for a back breaking hug which he gladly accepted. John shook as he began to cry into the tall man's shoulder. It didn't take long for his knees to give out from the crushing reality that his life was just about to come to an end, but Sherlock held fast and followed him to the floor letting the boy rest in his lap with his head still cradled next to the man's lean shoulder.

"I'm scared Sherlock."

One tear escaped from the detective's eye at the blonde's quiet admission, the first one to dribble down his cheek in years.

"I know, but I'm here, it's going to be ok, I won't leave your side. I will be right here."

They sat there for a few silent moments. Then Sherlock could feel a weak smile spreading across John's face against his shoulder. The boy pulled away briefly to look at the detective.

"What is it John?"

Sherlock asked, honestly confused as to what John could have to smile about.

"It's been fifty five seconds."

He said simply.

Sherlock's face broke into a nervous smile and he turned his head to get a good look at the cabbie. He was only slightly surprised that the man had begun to convulse on the ground. His eyes were pinned on the detective and he wore a manic sort of smile.

"B-bet you didn't see th-this one coming! Not even the g-great Sher-rlock Holmes is going to put me in the pen! I won, I was cleverer then y-you!"

The older man sputtered as his mouth began to foam and his body was racked with more violent convulsions. Sherlock looked back at John who appeared to be in a great deal of shock.

"Come on John, we don't need to see this."

He stood holding the boy up and led him out of the classroom. They managed to shuffle down the hallway for a minute before John collapsed again.

"John! Are you alright?"

Sherlock's heart started to go into overdrive again, was it possible that both pills had been lethal this time? He knelt down to examine the boy; John just looked up at the man through bleary eyes though and shook his head.

"I thought I was dead. I-I thought it was all over. I thought…I escaped my dad just to be killed because of some stupid text messaging mix up. I-I was so sure it was your brother…."

John's voice was breaking and his hands were trembling, it gave Sherlock a strong urge to go back into that room to kick the now (more than likely) dead serial killer.

"I'm so sorry you had to go through this…I shouldn't have used your phone without your knowledge, it was…_wrong _of me. Please, I, please know if I'd have known…I didn't think he was going to text back so I just let myself fall asleep."

Sherlock wasn't accustomed to apologizing, and even now the words scathed his mouth, but he didn't mind. It'd be worse for John to think it himself, to hold it against the detective. He wouldn't be able to cope if his actions tonight led to the end of this friendship. John gave him another weak smile and motioned for the taller man to come closer. Sherlock leaned in not knowing what to expect actually, but their faces were close, and he could feel John's warm sweet breath on his lips. A strange sensation he thought, one that he would have previously considered most undesirable, and maybe it still was, with anyone who wasn't the boy sitting beneath him. The detective could feel a sort of prickling sensation on the back of his neck, a sensation that filled him with a nervous excitement. They were only centimeters apart, but for some reason that still felt like too much. He licked his lips, still waiting, wondering, what the boy was to going to do. Then it hit him, quite literally, John's hand came in to contact with his cheek in a most unpleasant manner. The smack echoed through the empty hallway fallowed immediately after by Sherlock's gasp.

"You-you hit me."

He stammered incredulously. John's smile widened and he started to giggle.

"Damn right, now we're even."

Sherlock could feel a bubble of laughter coursing through him as well, and for a while the two of them just sat there chuckling to themselves in the dark. Finally John cleared his throat and gave the detective a serious look.

"You should probably call D.I. Lestrade, tell him what happened…you don't think-"

"They won't be mad at you, if anything they'll be angry with me. And no, you can stop worrying, they won't send you home, I won't let them."

Sherlock stated with little room for argument.

"You're right though, I should inform Lestrade. You did just kill a man."

The tall man said with a wink. For a moment John's face was stricken with grief, but it was soon replaced with smirk.

"Well, he wasn't a very _nice_ man."

The two of them started laughing again, Sherlock laughed so hard he could no longer hold himself up and slipped into a sitting position next to John. They leaned against the cool wall for support as the laughter shook through them. Finally they were breathing normally again and Sherlock pulled out his phone to make the call. Needless to say Lestrade was more than a little bit confused, but he promised to be there quickly. The detective hung up with a sigh and turned back towards the boy whose eyes were focused in on the tall man. Sherlock felt his heart skip a beat; it was a heady thing to have those big blue eyes studying your every move. His breath hitched a bit and he wondered if perhaps he was coming down with something.

"You know, he thought I was a rent boy too. Whatever you're going around telling people cut it out. Sooner or later someone's going to proposition me."

The boy said with a smile. Sherlock scoffed in mock offense which sent them over the edge once more. When the yard finally arrived they found the two still giggling in the hall way, something Lestrade referred to as 'unsettling'. The taller man had argued when the inspector insisted on covering them with those ridiculous orange blankets, but the smile on John's face had taken the harshness out of his voice so most of his insults and demands fell flat. When they'd finally gone home the adrenaline seemed to have warn off and it was now early morning, the sun was up and Mrs. Hudson was bustling about the kitchen but the two friends were ready to collapse in their beds. Sherlock laid himself out on the couch and readied himself for a brief nap before he got back up to finish his experiments, and probably to call in sick for John, he wasn't so sure how safe he felt having him out of his sight so soon. The boy walked over to the detective just as he was preparing himself for sleep and cleared his throat. Sherlock peeled one eye open to observe the blonde.

"I've just got one last question…before I loose the nerve to ask…why were we…ya know…"

Sherlock furrowed his brow. No, he most certainly did not _know._ Did John think him some sort of mind reader? Just as he was about to voice this thought he realized what the boy had been referring to. John had woken up to the two of them laying together on the couch. Hmmm…this might be problematic. He wasn't sure how comfortable John was with his sexuality, or what his sexuality was for that matter. It was possible that it had upset John, that he was offended about sleeping with a man. Or he could have found himself flustered, and aroused, at the situation. That thought sent shivers down his spine for some indiscernible reason.

"You were having a nightmare, hyperventilating, I needed to increase your airflow. Once you'd calmed down I didn't want to disturb you, and I'd thought the cabbie wasn't texting back, leaving me with a dead end, so I decided to sleep."

John nodded his head as he processed the information and then began walking back to his room.

"Ok, sorry if it was too much trouble…I don't mean to do it or anything…"

He said and then paused just before he started his climb up the stairs. Without looking at the detective he began to speak again.

"Could you not tell anyone? About the dreams or the…ya know…the way I sort of lost it back there? It's well…it's a bit embarrassing."

John confessed griping tightly to the railing. Sherlock was taken back, what should he be embarrassed about? Emotions were normal, he should know, he'd been ridiculed his whole life for lacking them. Quickly he made his way over to the boy and laid a hand on one broad shoulder. John turned with a start to stare up at the tall man wide eyed.

"Don't think that way, I don't. You're displaying natural reactions based off the chemicals being released in your brain. I promise I won't tell anyone though, if it will make you feel more secure. Just don't think I think less of you for it."

John nodded and began making his way up the stairs again. The detective's arm shot out and caught the blonde's hand, preventing him from going any further. He looked down at the detective clearly confused. Sherlock dipped his head down to avoid those deep blue eyes, opting to observe the floor boards instead.

"I'm glad you didn't die tonight, John. Your death…it would have affected me greatly."

John smiled at that and let out a small huff in amusement.

"Thanks Sherlock. I'd be a bit put off if you died too…I'll see you later, ok?"

He pulled away from the detective and continued up the stairs. Sherlock let a warm smile spread across his face. It seemed he was growing to become quite fond of this caring lot.


	9. Chapter 9

**Runaway Home**

**Chp 9**

Love. _**love**_/ləv/ as noun: An intense feeling of deep affection: "theirlove fortheir country". A verb: feel a deep romantic or sexual attachment to (someone): "do you love me?". Synonyms: noun (affection, fondness, darling, passion), verb (like, be fond of, fancy, adore). Sherlock Holmes was a man of intelligence and wit, therefore, not one to normally depend on online definitions of simplistic words. However, today it seemed necessary. It had been almost a full three months since the incident with the killer cabbie and, coincidently, the night Sherlock had undoubtedly begun feeling…_love_. He didn't recognize the symptoms at first, and why should he? He had never felt it before. It was three weeks after John's brush with death that the detective had started to wonder. It might have been the way the boy had laughed that day, or how he'd stood up for him at another one of Lestrade's 'drug busts', or even just in the way the sunlight caught in his blonde mop of hair. Whatever it was, it became glaringly obvious from there on out, that he was feeling something very different for his flat mate than his previously presumed friendship. It had taken him until now though to finally get around to whole heartedly launching a full scale investigation.

John didn't know it yet (or if he did he made no mention of it) but Sherlock was studying the boy closely. He was watching, observing, and categorizing. It was just all so curious, his feelings for the boy. Watching him only made it worse too. Even the simple things could cause the detective's throat to go dry, his heart to race, and his palms to sweat. John would be doing something, anything, and it would make the man's body go ablaze. John cooking, making him eat, that led to the chest tightening. John licking his lips made his lungs collapse. John yelling at Anderson made his heart swell. John walking around in just his boxers whilst reciting his new mantra 'not a rent boy, just warm', it made his groin go impossibly tight. All these new sensations and the boy remained infuriatingly ignorant to it. He didn't even realize the pain he was causing the detective, and it was maddening.

Sherlock had decided there were a number of reasons that John would be so naïve. One being that John was too inexperienced in this area to know what to look for. To be fair, it had taken Sherlock a few months to figure it out and he was the one experiencing it first hand. Another idea was John figured their age difference or even their gender made the probability of Sherlock's attraction impossible. Then there was the horrifying thought that John didn't care what the detective felt, he might even already know, but it wouldn't matter, because John wouldn't want to be with the older man. John had never shown an interest in men, and from Sherlock's research he knew that John had had a girlfriend. This information, those unpleasant thoughts, is what led to the investigation. He needed to know, before this got even more out of hand, if he even stood a chance. When he was little he'd tuned out emotion, he'd shut it out so the insults wouldn't cut, so they wouldn't cloud his thought. He could do it again, if he had to, if it was a matter of self preservation in an entirely different manner. Because it was on that day that those thoughts and this new forming worry became painfully clear, and threatened the detective's sanity. John had just returned home from his second full week at school and Sherlock discovered that the boy managed to conjure up another new feeling. One that made something dark settle in his stomach and something painful grip his heart.

There was a sickly sweet scent sticking to the boy, and his button down shirt had been tugged free of his trousers. Further examination revealed traces of lipstick on his collar, jaw, and the corner of his mouth. John's belt was disturbingly loose as well and the detective gritted his teeth at the sight. He had stumbled into the flat with a dreamy smile plastered to his face, without a care in the world he made his way into the living room and collapsed in his arm chair. Sherlock's eyes narrowed and his fists clenched. His spot on the sofa gave him the perfect angle to observe all of these facts and he found every single one offensive and intolerable. He looked over to the clock; John was exactly forty minutes and twenty six seconds late. It took immense self control to contain the scream that was gurgling in the back of his throat.

"You're late."

Sherlock spit out hoping to wipe that stupid grin off the boy's face. It shouldn't be there, it didn't belong, only Sherlock was allowed to make John smile like _that_. His tone had no affect however and John merely hummed back in response.

"Well, care to explain? You certainly look _pleased_ with yourself."

John let out a long and contented sigh before sitting up to look at the detective with half lidded eyes.

"Janette Baker."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed even more than before.

"Is that name supposed to mean something to me?"

John let his smile grow even wider sending a pang of…jealousy? Through the detective.

"Perhaps not, but it means something to me. Now it does anyway. Janette Baker is the sexiest girl in school and she wanted _me_."

John stated proudly slumping back into the chair. Yes, the detective was certain now, this was jealousy.

"What do you mean by that? Does she intend to _date_ you or something ridiculous like that?"

Sherlock hoped his investment in the matter wasn't too obvious to the love drunk adolescent, and evidently, it wasn't.

"She didn't say."

John said drifting slowly back to reality. Now _that_ was a surprise, because if Sherlock had the chance to have John in a committed relationship he'd let nothing stand in his way. How stupid was this girl?

"I'd think that the level of intimacy you two have clearly had would insinuate some sort of relationship being formed."

John shook his head heavily.

"No, not necessarily. She did it because I stuck up for this kid who was being picked on, got a punch to the gut for it, but the other guy walked away with a broken nose so…"

John trailed off for a moment, probably running through the event in his mind, relishing in his accomplishment.

"Anyway, the kid who was being bullied ended up being Janette's little brother, and she just happened to be a very grateful older sister."

John's smile grew once again and he stretched out his arms briefly before resting them behind his head. Sherlock's knuckles went white as he clenched his fist.

"I didn't realize such events had so little value to you John. I thought you cared for people as individuals, it's not like you to treat someone as just a means of sexual relief."

Sherlock scorned. John straightened up at that and eyed the detective defensively.

"I do care for her as a person. That doesn't mean I want to date her. She's pretty and a bloody wonderful kisser, but she's just a few eggs short of a dozen if you know what I mean. A relationship with her would be complicated and time consuming based off what I can read from her. Besides, it's not like she asked me to date her, that's not what she was looking for. Anyway, weren't you a teenager once? It's not like I was going to turn down the school's most shagable upperclassman's offer to suck me off behind the bleachers. I respect women as people, but I'm not a saint, I have desires."

For a while, Sherlock could do nothing but stare. That girl, that stupid, horrible, despicable girl had touched him. Had touched parts of him the detective was now starting to question if he'd ever even see. Worse, was that she had touched him and John liked it. John liked the feel of her feminine hands on his tan skin, or her plush lips against his thin strong ones, her mouth…it was too much. John should know better, he should know that Sherlock would be so much better for him. He was smart, he could teach the boy things, he gave him adventure, and real affection. The detective wasn't experienced in romance, but he could learn, he could be just as good as that girl, he could be better.

"You said women. Do you only rely on women to aide in your release?"

Sherlock asked before he even processed what was going on. He wanted to know, yes, he needed to know if John could ever see him as something more. This was just a bit too forward for his taste however. Would John see through him now? Would he hate him for it? John blinked once, twice, and then licked his lips as a light blush rose to his cheeks.

"That sort of thing wasn't really accepted where I come from so I guess I'd never really…thought about it. Not that it's bad or anything I just never considered it an option. My sister is that way and her and her girlfriend were constantly being ridiculed. Besides I mean, blokes are blokes, I've never seen them as an option. Just friends, nothing more, never even considered what another man has looked like. Why, do I look like the type? Because I think I'd know, and I'm sure I'm not."

Sherlock's heart skipped a beat; that was a lie. John was a horrible liar, he would continue to rattle off pointless thoughts or offer up arguments that made little to no sense. So he had considered it, there was still hope. Something warm settled in the detective's chest. This girl was meaningless, she would fade into the past soon enough, Sherlock would remain. He would stay and he would continue to study John, he would fully investigate into the matter of dating John Watson. He would solve this case, he was sure of it, because he had to, and it was possibly the most important one he'd ever take on.


	10. Chapter 10

**Runaway Home**

**Chp 10**

Sharing a flat with Sherlock was one of the greatest decisions John had ever made, and he was well aware of it, but some days he didn't feel so grateful. Some days he was reminded just why his flat mat had so few friends. The tall man could be so self involved and lacking in any common decency. This morning John could tell was going to be one of those days. He awoke to the sound of his alarm clock as usual, except…it wasn't usual. The chime was sounding off from another room, from downstairs. John shut his eyes even tighter trying to squeeze out his grogginess. With sleepy determination he lifted himself out of the bed and began making a slow trek down the stairs. As he entered the kitchen he stretched out his arms and let out a yawn. When his eyes began to focus the first thing he noticed was the brunette staring at him over an enormous mound of junk (amongst which was his alarm clock) on the kitchen table. Probably some experiment he thought tiredly taking another step forward.

"Sherlock, what are you doing with my alarm clock? You know I have to be up for school in the morning."

John stated still trying to shake off the sleep. Though somewhere in the back of his mind he felt that it was just a bit too bright for the earlier hours in which the detective would remain awake and working.

"Yes, well you still have a whole…uh, um, fifteen minutes until your first class."

Sherlock explained. John's eyes shot open as the news hit him at full force. He turned to observe the kitchen clock on the wall and came to the startling revelation that Sherlock was in fact telling the truth, he had fifteen minutes until his next class.

"Christ Sherlock! Couldn't you have used your own bloody clock!"

He cried out snatching his clock back and running up the stairs. As he made a mad dash through his room he threw the alarm clock on his bed and began scrambling to put his uniform on. One positive to religiously sleeping in nothing but boxers was that he didn't have to bother with taking off any pajamas. Making quick use of the buttons John put his shirt on first. He hesitated before the pants, right, hygiene. He had just opened the top drawer of his dresser when he heard Sherlock at the entrance of his room.

"What do you need?"

The boy huffed out in annoyance as he searched desperately through his disorganized drawer for a fresh pair of boxers.

"I, well, I hadn't realized the time John, if I had known…"

The detective's voice trailed off as John retrieved a grey set of boxers and hurriedly shimmied out of his old ones. The blonde heard a sharp intake of breath once he'd turned to throw the dirty underwear into his laundry basket. He looked quizzically at his flat mate who stood in front of him with wide eyes and a deep blush. If it were anyone else he'd assume he was embarrassed, but Sherlock didn't do embarrassed. So it was just a bit off putting that the man stood there and stared at him as he did. John had never been bashful about being naked around other men as he grew accustomed to it when changing in the locker room for rugby, but he was growing uncomfortable with the current situation, for a number of reasons.

"Problem?"

He asked pulling on his new boxers. Sherlock shook his head vehemently but the blush remained, John wasn't sure if he imagined it but it seemed the detective had wrapped his robe around himself tighter as well. The boy continued to pull on his pants and jacket, quickly tied his tie, and then picked up his school bag. He wasn't as well put together as he normally was, but it would have to do, he was late enough as it was. With that he made his way to the door only to have his path blocked by his ever stranger flat mate.

"Sherlock, do you mind moving, I'm sort of on a dead line."

He said with an exasperated hand motion. Sherlock shook his head again as if in a daze and moved to the side. John eyed him curiously for a moment before dashing out the door. While exiting the flat, just after a brief goodbye to Mrs. Hudson, John noticed that a familiar black Lincoln was parked and waiting outside. He walked over to the car and saw Mycroft's posh face appear as the window rolled down.

"Running late I see, that's the tenth time this year and with only a month until finals."

John fought the temptation to roll his eyes.

"Yes, well, it can't be helped when your flat mate decides your alarm clock is an essential part to one of his experiments."

The politician nodded his head knowingly and opened his door.

"I'll give you a ride there."

He sighed scooting over to make room for the boy.

"Thanks."

John said simply and shut the door behind himself as he sat in the leather seat. The ride was silent for a short moment and John wondered idly if perhaps this was nothing more than a friendly favor.

"I've noticed over the past year that you and my brother have grown quite attached."

So much for favors. John turned to look at the older man questioningly.

"Yes, I suppose, what's that got to do with anything?"

He asked, hoping not to sound as concerned with the inquiry as he really was. Mycroft smirked and John was sure his cover was blown, he was almost positive the man could see right into his thoughts.

"Nothing really, it's just my brother appears to be taking a particular interest in you and I was curious as to how it was you felt about him."

The question came off unassuming in tone but there was a gleam in the man's eye that made John grow pale.

"He's a good friend, my best friend. He gets on my nerves a lot but otherwise we're perfect mates...what do you mean by interest?"

John said in what he hoped was a confident voice. Mycroft nodded almost absentmindedly but never dulled the sharpness of his stare.

"Oh, nothing really, just that he prefers your company to most is all. I'm sure you've noticed."

The politician stated dully. John nodded and turned his head to look out the window hoping that the conversation was over. Talking to Mycroft about such personal things put him on edge. After a few moments of nervous silence the boy relaxed a little. It seemed Mycroft was finished with his questions and was now occupying himself with some lengthy text-messaging conversation. Probably something of the highest priority regarding the state of the free world or whatever it was the man did.

John noticed they were coming close to the school and breathed a sigh of relief. He would be free soon. He'd have to face his teacher and a tardy slip but it was better than being subjected to these invasive questions. Not that they were principally invasive, but they were to John. He found himself becoming more and more confused around his flat mate. Sherlock was a bloke, and blokes were blokes, right? That's what his dad had said the night Harriet came out: Birds were birds, and blokes were blokes, nothing more than that. It had been slurred and certainly wasn't the most clear or elegant of phrases, but his meaning made itself known by the way he'd hit Harry when she first uttered the word 'lesbian'. Boys and girls were born to be a certain way, were supposed to fit some mold, and weren't supposed to break that mold. John had been too young at the time to know one way or another. Maybe he'd liked boys, maybe he'd liked girls, but after that night he'd decided it didn't matter much either way. He was going to like girls, because blokes were blokes.

That had never been a problem for John. Girls were nice, they were soft, and he liked them. He'd never been in love with one, but he had just turned seventeen a few months ago, there was still time for love. He'd liked kissing girls, feeling them, being in their company. He respected them as friends and peers, and he also recognized them as his appropriate means for arousal. None of that had ever been a problem, not once, or at least…not until a month or so after the 'study in pink' case (he'd so named in his journals as it came up so frequently it required some sort of title) Sherlock had worked.

He'd seen his friend in a new light that night and it had changed his perspective on everything. Sherlock had said that he loved him (Not in so many words mind you, but the message had come through loud and clear), and it meant so much more than he'd ever thought. It made John inexplicably happy and had filled him with a sort of joy he'd never known. He loved Sherlock and Sherlock loved him. Which at first was the simplest thing in the world, because blokes were blokes, and blokes could love their friends. Things only remained simple for a matter of weeks, then he had the dream. The dream that made it all so very not simple, the one that told him that blokes were _not_ blokes, not all the time. Because it made him question the real reason he found those eyes so captivating and the man's overall appearance breath taking. It made him wonder why it was that he didn't mind being snuggled against him on the couch that night.

Sherlock didn't notice his internal struggle with these strange new feelings that he couldn't quite place anymore. Which was good because he was sure that wouldn't go over well, the detective would probably want him to move out if he knew. Sherlock had told him once that he didn't have sex, it had been shortly after the row about Janette Baker, or AKA: the girl who had been mysteriously transferred the next week. John would get to the bottom of that one, eventually. He had more pressing matters to worry about at the moment however. For now he was convinced there was only one cure for his predicament, and that was to fall in love…again. With a girl this time. His feelings for Sherlock might have confused him but he knew what it boiled down to, he was in love with the man, and that would just not end well for him. Because Sherlock didn't care if blokes were blokes or if birds were birds, he just cared about the chase. Besides, John wasn't so sure he was ready to drop his heterosexual status, he'd grown accustomed to it, he felt comfortable with it. He wasn't sure how people would see him if that fact changed. Hence the need to fall in love with a girl. One who he could love just as much if not more than the detective. That would solve everything…he hoped.

At any rate by the time the black Lincoln had pulled into the school he'd made up his mind. He was going to try his hardest to find the girl of his dreams, the one that would take his breath away. He would do it no matter what, even if he had to date every girl he ever met.


	11. Chapter 11

**Runaway Home**

**Chp 11**

**Wow, I had to re-watch the blind banker to write these next few chapters because it is the episode I have watched the least! It is my least favorite of all the episodes, so don't be surprised if even more things have been changed than last time.**

Boring. That's all he could say at this point. Before he'd try to make some scathing comment masked with the pretense of merely deducing, he'd go into graphic detail of some of her most undesirable traits or activities. It'd work, but not as well as he'd liked. No, Sherlock found himself trapped in a situation he liked to refer to as the 'beehive'. Beehive was the title he'd given his metaphorical explanation as to what his problem was exactly, and it went a little something like this: There was a hive, within that hive was some honey, to most it was considered ordinary and dull, but to the bees keeping it, it was the most succulent and golden of all the honey in the world. The problem was that despite the general consensus of the outside world on this honey being less than special, they insisted on trying to take it away from the bees. Mostly demented, idiotic, matted, disgusting, drooling bears. They would come for the bee's honey, and the bees would strike and sting and the bear would run off. However, there were more bears, there were always more bears. Stinging would only do so much, it would only stop the one bear, but there was no way for the bees to ward off future attacks, the bears were everywhere. Worse is that the honey wanted it. It _wanted_ to be taken by the bears, it didn't know of the bee's affection but it would not return it, it was dead set on being with a bear. In this thinly veiled metaphor 221b was the hive, Sherlock was the bees, John the honey, and those horrible girls were the bears.

So, at first Sherlock had focused all of his efforts on individual attacks, berating the girl until she left. It upset John greatly but did the trick…for a little while. Because Sherlock realized that over the passing months the amount of girls in his company were increasing tenfold. It didn't matter if he made fun of Suzie's eating habits, or Hannah's other boyfriend, or even Ellen's use of recreational drugs; there would always be another. So from then on he would give the simple assessment of 'boring' as each of them truly were. John seemed somewhat grateful that the ferocity of his comments had died down, but the detective wondered if he got the message.

Those girls were plain, dull, _boring_. John could have so much more! He could have a life of adventure, mystery, romance…he could have Sherlock. The detective just had to show him that. If John knew, if he understood what it was he could be having, then the honey would repel the bears! Well…in a matter of speaking. But pointing our how boring these girls were wasn't enough, he'd have to make John see just how exciting Sherlock was in comparison.

Which is why he jumped at the chance to take up his old university peer Sebastian Wilkes's case. Under normal circumstances it would have never happened, but Sherlock was determined to show John, and this was the perfect thing for that. It was nearing the end of their second summer together so the boy still had free time before his classes started up again, also this would be a private client rather than the police which meant less rules. Sebastian would hardly care if Sherlock brought a strapping young seventeen year old along with him so long as the work got done.

These musings of the detective's are what led him and his young companion to the bank that fateful day. Sherlock took long strides ensuring that John would have to maintain a sort of jog in order to keep up. It was painfully cute, and that's exactly why the older man insisted on doing it. John seemed a bit flustered and confused by the whole idea of this. Of the case; of him working the case with Sherlock. The detective consented that it must have appeared a bit out of the blue to those who were not tuned into his thoughts, but that was hardly important. He knew this was the first actual crime scene John had been taken to since the 'study in pink' (as the boy had so named that dreadful case) but it certainly wasn't the first he'd helped with. Whether it was direct or indirect John always offered some insight on to what Sherlock was working on, and would often times review photos and files with him early into the morning. As they made their way into Sebastian's office he could practically hear the gears turning in the blonde's head, trying to figure out just why his flat mate had taken him.

"Sherlock!"

Sebastian greeted with far too much vigor reaching forward to entangle Sherlock's hand in a firm shake. Next was John and the detective had to hold back a growl as the loathed man came into contact with his beloved flat mate. The three of them fell into the seats in the office almost immediately and Sherlock stared at the banker expectantly.

"So, Sherlock, who's the kid? He your intern or something?"

The man chuckled condescendingly.

"This is my _friend_, John Watson."

Sherlock declared proudly. John looked between the two men and gave a hesitant nod.

"Yeah, I'm his flat mate."

Sebastian straightened up at that and began looking between the detective and his boy with a growing sense of amusement.

"My, my, we knew he was odd but this takes the cake doesn't it?"

The banker laughed. Sherlock's eyes narrowed as he examined the man, just what did he mean by that? What was so odd about sharing a flat with John? The boy seemed equally curious about the comment, but for a different reason it seemed.

"We?"

He questioned looking perplexed by this entire situation. Sebastian cleared his throat and gave a conniving smiled.

"Yes, Sherlock and I went to uni together. We knew he was a freak but…ya know he'd see you at breakfast and know if you'd been shagging the night before…we all hated him."

The man gave another hateful smile pointed towards the detective and John gaffed. Sherlock merely looked down to the floor. It was true, he'd known he wasn't well liked by his peers, but somehow it was worse for it to be confirmed so bluntly. That, and with John right there, what would he think? He might laugh, agree that the detective is indeed hateful. Not normally something John would do, but given Sherlock's attitude towards his girlfriends in past few months it might seem fitting.

"He is bloody brilliant like that, isn't he? No wonder you guys hated him, I might be jealous too if I was constantly in competition with him."

Sherlock's head snapped up to look at the boy. John looked confident in his answer and was casting his unassuming smile at the banker, which appeared to be aggravating the man immensely. Once again Sherlock felt the warmth radiating from his chest, a feeling he was now very well aware of to be one of the many physical symptoms of love.

"Yes well…onto business then, eh?"

Sebastian said dryly pulling something up on his computer. As the banker clicked away the detective dared take a peek at John from the corner of his eye, who of course noticed, he always seems to notice what others ignored. The blonde smiled warmly before turning his attention back to the man behind the desk. Sherlock felt his cheeks heating up and internally cursed himself for being so predictable.

"Here we are."

The banker announced turning the screen so the detective could see. On it he could see a drab office wall with a painting of an old man. Then, right before his eyes, a streak of yellow paint appears across the painting's eyes. It happened within a matter of a minute, nearly impossible.

"All entrances were locked I presume?"  
Sherlock questioned bringing his hands beneath his chin in a prayer like manner.

"Yes, every door, even the ones in the john."

The detective nodded thoughtfully letting the room fall silent for a moment.

"I'm going to have to take a look around."

* * *

"Sherlock!"

John called out from over the call box for possibly the eighth time. Sherlock paid him little attention though, he wanted John to have to thrill of the chase, but he also needed to ensure all of his deductions were spot on to solve the case. He needed to concentrate; John was not conducive for concentration. John was distracting before, he had always been distracting, but after his experiment on the differences in alarm clock snooze times and the effectiveness of the first ring compared to the second and etc…John became an overpowering presence in his mind.

It wasn't that Sherlock had never seen a naked man before, he had, he'd seen naked cadavers and corpses at crime scenes and even a man who'd streaked across his university campus. None of those compared to this though, none of those were John. The boy who'd already haunted his dreams and made something coil in his stomach that he hadn't felt since his early pubescent years. Then this; this fleeting moment where he'd seen him, seen what had been hiding beneath those boxers all this time. At the time John had been wearing a shirt, but Sherlock had committed the image of John's naked torso to memory and therefore had a perfect image of what the boy would look like entirely nude.

He even had the proper imagination to place a perfectly reconstructed nude John and place him in the detective's bed. He'd gone hard instantly and was reminded just how painful the experience could be. John left and Sherlock spent the time he was away consumed by a new myriad of images. He could now properly imagine himself being the one to wrap his lips around John's thick cock, sucking him off behind those bleachers instead of the despicable Janette woman who started all this mess.

So it was important he get some time alone to observe before John was around him once more filling his mind with thoughts of laughter, late nights with take out, and fantasies involving bleachers. He crept about the apartment in search of this Eddie Vancoon and any possible clues to his involvement with the break in at the bank. It was clear the painting was a message for him, but why? Finally he came across a door way that had been locked, without a moment's hesitation he stepped back and kicked the doors open with one forceful blow. Beyond the doors he found one Eddie Vancoon lying on his bed with a bullet through his brain.


	12. Chapter 12

**Runaway Home**

**Chp 12**

**Looooong chapter, last parts not edited yet, hope you like it!**

John wasn't one for complaining, but on that day he'd felt like shouting. He could still picture with perfect clarity the patronizing look on the officer's faces. Sherlock hadn't noticed, or if he had he didn't care, but they were all mocking him. One even had the bullocks to ask if it was 'bring your kid to work' day. It took every ounce of strength and will power in him not to strike one of their smug faces. Sherlock acted surprised with his annoyed attitude, he'd asked the boy to check the man's suit case, like he was there to do as the detective ordered. If he'd gone and riffled through the man's underpants and other items it probably would have resulted in some cruel sneer from the on looking men and women. Needless to say he'd been happy when they'd left.

From there Sherlock invested an exuberant amount of pounds in his homeless network to retrieve any information regarding the spray paint being left for the murder victim. John had insisted he knew a mate of his who tagged buildings somewhat 'professionally'. The detective had scoffed and told the boy not to waste his time or effort; that this friend of his would likely be of little use. Most people would have listened, not bothered their mate, just let it go. John was not most people, and he did not like people ordering him about. That said, he was also quite stubborn and convinced his mate might have some valuable insight, so he'd asked for his help anyway.

One aspect of this case he found himself enjoying particularly was that Sherlock seemed to finally be taking off the training wheels so to speak. He hadn't allowed John to do much else but review case files previously, but now he was in the field! The next man to be killed the next night had been a journalist, and Sherlock had taken him to that crime scene as well. It all seemed very aggravating to be around the officers again until Sherlock announced that he'd need help in tracking down leads. Sherlock was going to investigate Vancoon's activities before the murder and he wanted John to look into what the journalist had been up to. The portly man had left behind a date book of sorts which was a fantastic aide and John dove in immediately.

After a half hour spent going through the journal and drinking a cuppa at a coffee house near the crime scene that was not nearly as good as Mrs. Hudson's, he decided it was time to get on the move. He'd looked over everything the man had done in the week before his death and one event from the day after is trip from china stuck out in particular. He had visited a shop called 'the lucky cat'. The man had underlined the time and place multiple times indicating it being something of great importance. John didn't even begin to fathom why, but knew it was as good a place as any to start searching. So he hopped in a tube and made his way down. He thought idly about how odd it was to be in the tube. Sherlock didn't like it; he didn't like being 'surrounded by that much stupid'. The detective much preferred the solitude of a cab drive. John shook his head and cleared his mind of any thoughts about the detective as he exited the train. Luckily the station wasn't far from the store from what the date book said. It had an address written in smudged letters and while John strained his eyes to ensure that the last number was in fact a three and not an eight, he bumped into someone far taller than himself. He recovered quickly and started to blurt out an apology when he realized just who he'd run into.

"Sherlock?"

The detective looked at him curiously for a moment but soon turned his gaze back out on the street.

"It has to be around here somewhere, some place that the man would have gone to drop off his package."

The man rambled as John merely looked back down to the journal. Package, Vancoon had had a package? Did that mean the journalist did as well? The journal had made no mention of a package, though if it were the kind that would lead to his death it may have been for the best. John looked about quickly and realized they were standing exactly opposite of the destination in the journalists date book.

"Where!"

Sherlock was fuming now, furious that the answer wasn't just popping up in front of him. The boy gave a soft sigh and reached forward to hold the taller man still. The detective looked down at him truly perplexed as to why he was being forced to stand still. John removed one hand to point towards the lucky cat store across the street.

"That store, there."

He stated confidently. Sherlock followed the boy's indicated direction then turned an inquiring eye back to the blonde.

"How do you know?"

John smiled and waved the book in front of the detective.

"The journalist went there too, wrote it down."

"Oh."

Sherlock breathed in quite admission, as if to say 'why didn't I think of that?'. The detective spared no time in crossing the street to enter the store. John followed close behind, silently cursing the man for walking so fast; didn't he realize that John practically had to jog just to keep up? The shop was filled with miscellaneous nick-nacks of all sorts which Sherlock took to studying each one with his calculating glare. John milled about for a moment trying to observe what he could. He'd lived with the detective for over a year now and had picked a up a few tricks. As he glanced over the number of varying items he came upon a small cat figurine. It seemed hardly of any importance but he found it held his interest. There was a small scratch on the side and he could tell that the mold that was used to create the cats had been damaged in some way because this one looked just a bit different. The ears seemed slightly elongated and the eyes just a tad too narrow, the nose was sharper as well. In an odd way it sort of reminded the boy of Sherlock.

"Lucky cat ten pound, very nice! Your boyfriend I think he will like!"

The older woman behind the counter insisted.

"Boyfriend…?"

John's eyes went as wide as dinner plates and he brought his hand up to wave in front of his face as if to ward off her words.

"No, no, he's not my-we're not-"

"Boyfriends?"

Sherlock chimed in cutting John's ramblings short.

"Exactly."

John sighed looking back at the detective. To the blonde's surprise the man had some far off look to his eyes that almost resembled hurt.

"I would have thought…after all this time…you don't consider me a friend John?"

Sherlock's eyes were full of pain now and the detective looked as though he'd been crushed. John felt a pang of guilt for causing his flat mate such distress, but couldn't help but also feel a small smile grow on his face. Sherlock could be so innocent at times, So much so that John often thought of the man as a peer rather than an adult (his tantrums helped with that as well).

"Of course I do, that's just not what the term 'boyfriend' means. You're my mate, my best mate, just not someone I'd want to-um-uh, shag."

The boy blushed a bit and had to look away from the detective to hide his embarrassment. A small part of him worried that Sherlock would be able to deduce the truth right then and there, realize how hard John had been trying _not_ to want to shag him, and just how miserably he was failing.

"Oh…"

With that the tall man turned around and went back to staring down a small box of origami paper. John looked back towards the old woman who had a broad smile on her face.

"Ten pound, ten pound!"

She urged. The boy looked back down at the cat in his hand and considered it. It wasn't the greatest thing in the world, but he liked that it reminded him of Sherlock. As he turned it in his hand considering the amount of pounds in his pocket and how much he needed to get back to the flat he noticed something. On the bottom of the figurine there was a symbol just like the ones they'd found waiting for the victims.

"Sherlock."

John called and the man was behind him in seconds. He pointed out the symbol and the detective took in a sharp inhalation of breath.

"Good John, very good."

The blonde smiled and felt pride swelling up in his chest, he liked impressing Sherlock. John decided to buy the cat after all and chased after the detective as he bustled out of the shop. John listened intently as Sherlock rambled on about numbers and ciphers and all the possible meanings. He was listening so closely in fact that he didn't notice when the man came to an abrupt stop in front of himself causing him to crash into the back of the man.

"Pay attention John."

He chided.

"Sorry."

John huffed.

"John…when was the last time it rained?"

The boy scrunched up his face. The last time it rained? That was an odd question.

"I don't know, a couple of weeks, why?"

He turned to see Sherlock examining a damp telephone book on the door step of a small town house. The detective remained there for a moment then brought himself back up with an envelope in hand. Sherlock opened it without hesitation and pulled out a thin piece of paper.

"This is from the museum."

He mused aloud and John looked down at his watch.

"The museum will be closed by now. If you're thinking that's our next stop it'll have to wait till morning."

Sherlock nodded his head but made no comment.

"Perhaps we should grab some dinner or-Sherlock?"

Without a word the detective had already been ducking into the ally beside the town house. John chased after him with a slight huff of annoyance. As he made his way back Sherlock was already pulling down the ladder to the fire escape, his spindly limbs making fast work of climbing up the thing, he was up the ladder before John made it all the way in.

"I have to get inside that flat."

Sherlock shouted down simply. The ladder lifted up just as John reached out to grasp hold. The detective didn't make any indication that he planned on helping the boy up and John scoffed.

"I'll wait down here for you then? Let you do the real work. Perhaps you have some mindless errand you'd like to send me on as you do so?"  
John didn't bother hiding the contempt in his tone, he was used to being left out, but some how it was worse now, he'd gotten the impression that he was becoming something more than a simple errand boy. Sherlock paused just as he was about to enter through the window.

"Mindless?"

John rolled his eyes.

"Yeah, mindless. You're always sending me off to do the boring stuff."

"Boring?"

Sherlock's voice seemed more distressed now and the boy wondered if his snide remark had actually affected the man.

"Well yeah, you're off having all the adventure while I'm left to just pick up whatever it is you need, it's boring."

Not completely true. John actually loved going about town with a task in hand, the feeling of accomplishing a goal and aiding in the discovery process. However, he really did want to do more.

"You make a valid point John."

Sherlock said far too quickly descending down the ladder at a rapid pace.

"Let's do a little exercise shall we?"

He said hopping down but holding the latter firmly in place.

"You go in first, make your deductions, then come around to the front and let me in. Then I can tell you if you've missed anything, but the initial discoveries will be all yours, how's that? Sound adventurous enough for you?"

John grinned widely and nodded is head vigorously. As if afraid the detective would recant his statement he rushed up the latter at lightning speed. When he entered through the window a near by vase fell and he nearly let it crash. With a slight shake he realized the vase was completely devoid of water. The spot beside the table it sat on was wet however.

"I think someone else has been here."

John called out loudly. He didn't hear a response but continued on. There was a smell of something foul and John tentatively moved to open the refrigerator.

"Oh, gross!"

He said with a start, shutting the door forcefully.

"Whoever it is that lives here has definitely been away a while."

John mumbled to himself as he wandered through the house. As he stepped into the living room however he got the distinct impression that he was not alone. A shiver ran through his body as he remembered the spilt vase.

"Shit"

He exclaimed in a harsh tone. Tossing his head side to side he could see no other signs of the intruder's possible location. He could hear Sherlock knocking on the door down the stairs and began moving towards it rapidly. If this were some sort of criminal, possibly the one who had murdered those two men (maybe whoever it was that lived here as well) then he did not want to stick around. As he drew closer to the stair well he could hear the detective calling out his name.

"John? Are you ready to let me in now? I think I've waited long enough don't you?"

"Sher-"

He hadn't made it down two steps before he felt the fabric wrap tightly around his throat, affectively cutting off his air supply. He floundered for a moment, hoping to grab hold of the murderer, but it was proving useless. He was lying on the stairs beneath the man and didn't have the proper leverage.

"John?"

The detective's voice was concerned and John wished desperately to call out to him. His vision was beginning to blur and somewhere in the back of his mind a voice reminded him to stop struggling, to try and hold onto the last precious amounts of oxygen still in his body. So he let his form go limp and tried to keep his eyes focused on the blank ceiling above him, his mind clinging hopelessly to his last moments of consciousness.

"John!"

Sherlock called out again, this time frantic and accompanied by a loud pounding on the door. It was all very far away from the boy though, as he drifted away.

"It's not up for debate John."

The detective spit.

"You're being unreasonable! Mrs. Hudson, please, tell him he's being unfair!"

Mrs. Hudson remained silent for a moment and John just looked between the two adults in front of him. Sherlock hadn't said a word the whole ride other than to ask if he was ok when the detective initially found him in the house. Once they'd gotten back to the flat however, he seemed to have found his voice. According to him the strangling incident was proof that it was too dangerous for John to continue helping with the investigation. Mrs. Hudson had come up because of the shouting and Sherlock filled her in, explaining the situation quite clearly and using the red and now bruising mark on John's throat as evidence. The older woman regarded the boy with a look of despair.

"Oh, I'm sorry love. I don't say this often, but I'm afraid I have to agree with Sherlock. This is dangerous business; I don't even like the idea of Sherlock doing it to be honest."

John stared at the two of them incredulously.

"It's not like I don't know how to take a hit! I've been strangled before! In case you have forgotten, I ran away from my father for a reason! I'm not some fragile china doll; I can take care of myself. The guy snuck up on me is all, it won't happen again."

John barked out more towards the detective than his landlady.

"You cannot be sure that it won't happen again, and this wasn't some middle class drunkard you were dealing withm, it was a trained assassin. If he'd wanted you dead, you would have been! Do you realize what a close call that was? How worried I'd been? I heard you get cut short and it took me all of thirty seconds to finally come to the conclusion that you needed my help. He could have affectively killed you and made his escape in that time."

Sherlock yelled back at him taking a few calculating steps closer.

"You don't know that. He could have just been some burglar who didn't want to be caught. We have no way of knowing-"

"In all your time in knowing me have I ever made a claim I didn't have sufficient evidence to back? There was an origami black lotus flower placed on your chest. The same one that had been on the bodies of both our victims. You could have been killed John."

Sherlock's voice was rough and thrumming with ferocity. Some small part of John knew he should feel scared, that an assassin coming so close to murdering you should be frightening. He wasn't though, he was just angry, he didn't want to go back to the way things had been before this case. He'd had a taste of adventure and he wanted more.

"I don't care."

John growled and Mrs. Hudson gasped in horror, as if the words had caused her physical pain. Sherlock's lip twitched and his gaze moved from Mrs. Hudson then back to John.

"I know, and that's why you can't be allowed to continue. You won't take the necessary precautions. You're a liability, and not one I'm willing to take on."

The detective declared darkly, crossing his arms against his chest as a means to showing that this conversation was over.

"John-"

Mrs. Hudson began but John was no longer in the mood. He wasn't a child; he didn't need to be treated like one. He rushed between the two of them, bumping into the taller man's shoulder roughly as he went, and made his way up the stairs to his room. With a loud slam he shut the door behind himself. He was pissed and didn't care who knew it. They were talking, he could hear them through his door, but he didn't really care to listen. Instead he pulled the cat figurine from his pocket and threw it on his bed with great force.

"It's not fair."

He snarled at the cat, as if it could listen then promptly threw himself on the bed next to it.

"Who's he to decide? I'm responsible, I can make decisions for myself. Hell! I'm ten times as responsible as him! He doesn't even eat, sleep, or shower properly without me bothering him."

The cat stared back him blankly, as most inanimate objects do and the boy let out a frustrated sigh. Talking to himself wasn't going to help matters in the slightest. He lay there for a few hours, and a couple times even thought about going down to try and reason with the detective. It was a lost cause though, he knew how stubborn Sherlock could be, he'd need some new scrap of evidence to prove that John could help him. It seemed Sherlock had been having similar thoughts though, as he heard the man make it half way up the stairs a few times before going back down. It had been quite for a while now, and sun had gone down almost a half hour ago. His stomach growled and he regretted not grabbing something to eat on his way up. Ever since he'd moved into 221b he'd made a habit of not missing dinner as he so frequently did before.

Then, in a twist of fate, the boy's phone rang. He reached into his pocket to retrieve his mobile and observed the screen with minimal interest. On discovering the originator of the text he shot up like a light. It was from none other than Danny McCrae, his spray paint enthusiast. He opened the message hastily and let out a gasp of excitement. He'd seen the spray paint, his favor had paid off. He jumped off his bed to run and tell Sherlock before he remembered that he wasn't allowed on the case anymore. He stopped dead in his tracks. Without realizing it, John stood there and let the gears in his head turn, as he came to a conclusion that would once again ensure that a boring picket fence would never be in his future. In a moments time he'd come to the decision that he would look into the spray paint by himself. When he came back with the valuable information the detective would have no choice but to allow him to help, he'd prove how useful he could be. So he quickly shot off a text in reply.

_Thanks mate! Where was it?_

After a few moments of staring intently at his phone it rang again.

_Down by a popular tagging spot, but don't bother there. You're going to want to go by the train tracks near by, that's where most people go if they've got something important to say. I'm guessing by the sounds of this case it'd be pretty important. Try not to get mugged though. Sending you directions now._

John smiled widely.

_Don't plan to, thanks again; you've been loads of help!_

John shoved his phone back into his pocket and charged into his closet. While he couldn't go down stairs to grab his jacket it was still summer (although the autumn chill was beginning to set in) and wouldn't need much. So he grabbed a warm jumper and threw it over his shirt. After a bit of rummaging he found a torch buried under some piles of paper. He then carefully opened his window so as to not make a sound and slipped out onto the fire escape. With the precision of a soldier he avoided the CCTV cameras he knew to be hidden around the surrounding buildings. The last thing he needed was Mycroft squealing.

Once he was out of view he took out his phone to review the directions. Good, it wasn't too far, about a ten minute tube trip. He hopped the next train he could and made his way down to the tracks. His torch wasn't very bright as he stumbled about but it did the job. There was a lot of ground to cover and John wished that he could have gone to Sherlock for help because it was a lot for one person. Ironically John's phone rung out at that moment, and who should be texting him but the very same man he'd just been thinking of.

_John, did you really think the world's only consulting detective wouldn't realize you'd left? I know you haven't run away because you've left the majority of your things, so I can only assume you've decided either to 'get some air' or to go chasing after something related to this case. Whichever it is you should return home regardless as it is now dark and you've had one attempt on your life today already. If you don't return immediately I will be forced to have Mycroft track the GPS chip in your phone._

John sneered in the dark. Of course Sherlock had figured him out in less than an hour, he shouldn't have expected any different.

_I will be home shortly. I'm on to something important._

John texted back picking up his pace. He'd need to find this paint soon if he wanted to get it before the detective sent the British government after him.

_I don't care if it's important you shouldn't have left the flat without me or Mrs. Hudson's knowledge! Nor should you have done so in search of something that could possibly result in your death!_

He was jogging now, hoping something would pop out at him. He didn't bother texting the detective back; it wouldn't do him any good. So instead he continued on until he came upon some familiar paint on the lines. Yes! He cast his torch upward and began looking at the surrounding area for walls anything really someone could have scrawled out a message. His phone rang again and he reluctantly looked down to see it was another text from Sherlock.

_I'm calling Mycroft now. I'm sure he's probably already located you though as I'm sure his people spotted you on the CCTV cameras._

John scoffed. What little faith, John may not have been the brightest but he knew how to hide. Just a yard further and John found what he was looking for. A large message written out in the cipher. Part of him felt like doing a dance, but if he had any hopes of making it home before Mycroft's men got him he'd have to move fast. He lifted his phone and took a picture of the wall and for once thought that the high tech gizmo had come in rather handy. He'd never seen the use in getting something so needlessly expensive but the picture was marvelous, you could see all the numbers clearly. On his way back towards the tube his phone ran out another time.

_You avoided the cameras, clever, but your phone will still lead us to you._

John snorted, it was impressive to see Sherlock compliment him in a normal situation let alone when they were fighting.

_Go ahead. I'm on my way home anyway, got what I needed, and even managed to stay alive._

The trip back didn't seem to take nearly as long and he didn't receive one message or even see any black Lincolns roaming in the shadows. So when he walked up to his flat he assumed that Sherlock had taken his word for it and was waiting for him. Which, of course, he was right. Within a second of John opening the door Sherlock was on him.

"Where the hell did you go?"

He asked in a dangerously low voice. John straightened himself out so he was looking the man directly in the eye.

"I had a lead."

The silence following was palpable.

"You don't have leads. You don't have cases. Remember?"

Sherlock said after few minutes. John narrowed his eyes for the briefest of seconds before pulling out his phone. He pulled up the image of the cipher and held it up for the detective to see.

"My friend saw the paint; I needed to go see if they'd left a message. They have."

Sherlock glared at the screen for a long time before letting out a deep sigh releasing a great deal of his tension.

"You're almost as bad as me. What have I created?"

John's face soften considerably, it seemed his work had paid off.

"You? I got this way all on my own thank you, you don't get any credit."

He smirked at the taller man began smiling back after a moment.

"I suppose I should have known better then to try and hold you back…but I just don't want to see you get hurt John, can't you see the logic in that?"

Sherlock asked quietly. John nodded because, yes, yes he could. He knew Sherlock had his reasons, they were just not well founded, John could take care of himself.

"Alright…if you're going to be allowed to continue, we're going to have to set some ground rules."


	13. Chapter 13

**Runaway Home**

**Chp 13**

"Am I allowed to edit some of these?"

"No."

"Come on, some of these have absolutely nothing to do with cases."

"The rules aren't for cases; they're for you, to keep you safe."

"Yes well, you could have fooled me."  
Sherlock narrowed his eyes, John agreed to the terms hours ago, but that didn't stop his complaining. It made the detective wonder if the boy might break them, if he might deem them as unnecessary. Especially since he'd agreed in haste, he could have done so blindly just so Sherlock would take him to the museum, because it wasn't until after their visit that John began to complain. Not seconds after entering the flat did he begin to try and debate the detective's guidelines. Which was highly irritating.

The day before Sherlock had been out of his mind with panic and guilt when he heard John try and fail to call out his name. It was only made worse when he saw the boy's limp body sprawled on the stairs with the familiar paper flower. He hadn't felt that amount of terror since the 'study in pink'. If he was honest a good portion of him really didn't want John working the cases for his safety, but another part, a selfish part, needed him to. He needed to convince John of his exciting nature, to get rid of all those girls, to have John near him and with him always. It was selfish but he couldn't deny the appeal. Besides, the practical side of his mind reminded him that John was a stubborn and strong willed boy; he'd find his way to crime scenes if that's what he wanted.

"Sherlock, are you even paying attention?"

The boy's harsh voice called out pulling Sherlock from his inner musings. He observed the boy cautiously, he was obviously annoyed and not dropping this subject. The detective sighed deeply realizing John wasn't going to drop this.

"Not particularly. Why, were you saying something of interest?"

Sherlock replied indifferently.

"Oh, you can be such a prat some times! You can't be serious about all of these, it's completely overboard and not necessary. Like, a curfew? Come on, my dad didn't even give me a curfew."

John roared petulantly. Sherlock shuttered at the mention of John's father and sat up on the couch so that he changed his view of the ceiling to that of John pouting in his arm chair.

"Well, I'm certainly not your father, so that is of little importance to me."

He wasn't sure if he should stress that point, make sure that John did in fact agree. Sherlock suppressed a shiver as the thought of John seeing him as a father figure crossed his mind. That would not do, it really wouldn't.

"No shit, you're probably the farthest thing from my dad humanly possible. I just mean you're being really strict."

John said relaxing a bit but crossing his arms tightly over his chest.

"I beg to differ, I was being perfectly logical in the making of that list. I'm not acting out of some need to control you, simply to ensure you remain living."

Sherlock wasn't entirely certain about the validity of that statement but it wouldn't do John any good to know that. At any rate, he was determined for the boy to accept the conditions without so much fuss; it was becoming tiresome to ague over such things when they had a case to work on. He needed to focus, plan for their meeting with the missing museum woman, it wouldn't be much longer before the museum was closed.

"If you are so bothered by the list why don't you state your complaints, hmm? Go through the list, tell me what you think of each item, if need be I will explain my decision to you."

John was silent for a moment but then pulled out the folded piece of paper from his pocket.

"Rule one, no getting into cars with strangers. Nothing wrong with this one, although you only put it on there to be a prick."

John snorted and Sherlock simply smiled at the boy rather than respond.

"Rule two, never leave the flat with out your phone fully charged and on. I suppose that's fine, I get that one. Rule three however…you must not stay out past midnight."

"What's wrong with that one? Criminal activity is known to increase in the later hours; the likelihood of you being attacked goes up astronomically."

John grumbles to himself as the detective looks at him pointedly.

"Fine…rule four and five sort of go hand in hand. Carry a butterfly knife and take boxing lessons. I don't own a butterfly knife nor do I know how to use one, besides, I can't afford to by a knife and pay or some fighting class. I don't even know when I'd have time for lessons once classes start back up, some of us have jobs you know."

Sherlock scoffed at the boy's mocking tone.

"Consulting detective, remember? It is a job. Just one that I've invented, but that makes little difference. Also, you can stop griping about costs, I already planned to give you mine, I have no use for it and I will teach you how to use it obviously. As for the boxing lessons I will teach you that as well."

John burst out into a deep laugh and the detective looked at the boy curiously.

"What's so funny?"  
John shook his head and let his laughter quiet a bit before speaking.

"You, boxing. I can't even imagine!"

Sherlock stiffened and sniffed his nose high into the air.

"And why ever not?"  
He questioned through tight lips. He'd never been very fond about being mocked, even if it was just John.

"Well, I don't know you can be so posh and spoiled at times. I just can't see you doing something that requires so much effort. Plus, the thought of you taking instructions from someone whose job it is to hit you?"

Despite himself Sherlock's lips twitched into a smirk as the last of John's snickers died out.

"You know me too well I suppose, I taught myself of course and at my own convenience. When my father attempted to get me an instructor originally I'd insulted him to the brink of tears. I've never worked well with superiors…well I _say_ superiors…"

John laughed again and this time the detective joined him.

"Hold on, there's still more to this list."

John said adamantly putting an end to their jesting.

"Rule six is that I can't do anything without your knowledge, that's…fine, I guess. It makes sense any way. Rule seven says I can't be a hero? What does that even mean?"

"Simple. Don't act under the false pretense that I will allow you to risk your own life to save someone else's, or to do something potentially dangerous for the sake of the victim. Based off our previous conversations regarding cases I determined there was a possibility of you doing something of that nature and I'm informing you it's not allowed."

Sherlock deadpanned resulting in a grimace from the boy sitting in the arm chair.

"What if it's you? You came to save me from the cabbie, am I not supposed to come save you?"

All the detective could do was stare for a moment as his mind silently spun out of control. John would risk his life for Sherlock? That was new, not completely unexpected, he had considered it obviously, but it was different to hear it out loud. It was a heady thought too, that John would willingly risk his life for Sherlock. No one he knew or known would act the same way, though Mycroft came close, just another thing that made the boy so dear to him.

"I would rather you didn't."

He said finally taking his gaze off of John to study the carpeting for a beat.

"I would rather I did."

Sherlock's head snapped back up to meet John's stern eyes.

"Then you can't work the cases, it's as simple as that."

"Come on! You would do it!"

John declared jumping out of his chair and pointing an accusatory finger.

"That's not the point, these rules aren't for me, I'm not the one who was nearly strangled to death! I'm clever enough to out smart these people, you're just a kid."

Sherlock hissed at the boy pinning him with a piercing glare. John stared at the detective and just gaped for what felt like a century.

"So that's it. I'm not allowed because I'm too dumb to do it right?"

John said and gave a humorless laugh that made something in the pit of the taller man's stomach twist painfully.

"That's not what I said."

Sherlock stammered as he stood himself up to move closer to the blonde who backed away quickly.

"No? That's sure as hell what it sounded like. You think I'm too stupid to help you, just like everyone else. This was all some big sham wasn't it? You just wanted to convince me I didn't_ want_ to help you. Is that why the last rule is no girls at the flat? You just wanted to tell me no without the fight, is that it?"

Sherlock reached out his hand hoping desperately to just get hold of John, any of John, anything to just make him stay and understand. The boy jerks away from the touch and glared at the detective dangerously.

"That wasn't my intension at all. Like I said before the rules were created to keep you safe while helping me. The girl rule was there for a similar reason, I'm sure the last thing you would want is for some criminal to see one of your many 'friends' and assume them _important_, possibly hurt or kill them? And you should know better than to think I see you as boring as the rest of the people out there. I was simply stating a fact, you're not as smart or nearly as experienced as me. You won't have the slightest clue as to what would be the correct course of action. You would act on instinct, and acting off feelings is what gets people killed, I should know, I solve their murders!"

The detective was shouting loud enough by the end that he was worried Mrs. Hudson might come up to check in on them. John shook his head defiantly and continued to back away from his distressed flat mate.

"Just stop. I don't need you to lie to me, you want me off the case, I'm gone."

John turned and began making his way up the stairs angrily. Sherlock followed him after a beat with quick frantic movements.

"I would never lie to you! Please, John, listen, you can have the girls if you want. Take as many home as you want just talk to me. You're upset, I've done something bad, just let's talk about this!"

Sherlock pleads as the boy begins climbing the stairs to his room. The detective is clambering up behind him when John slams the door viciously.

"John!"

No answer. The detective crumpled onto the steps not sure if he'd be able to move if he wanted to. He'd ruined it, ruined everything. John would hate him now, just like everyone else. The thought alone felt like a knife to his gut. All he'd wanted was to make John safe while still ridding himself of all those stupid girls. Now he'd lost John.

In a fit of self pity and pride he collected himself off the steps and made his way to the front door. Emotions would have to wait he chided himself. Right now he was on a case, and he needed to focus.


	14. Chapter 14

**Runaway Home**

**Chp 14**

**Please excuse the briefness of these scenes. I decided Sherlock would really only be the type to list facts rather than linger on details…also I was just a tad lazy…I apologize!**

Soo-lin was the name of the girl who had disappeared from the museum and of course, just as the detective expected, she was hiding inside the building. Once he discovered her in the facility's basement she submitted to his questioning with little protest. She had been a member of the gang called 'the black lotus' who'd been behind the murders. Their main means of business was smuggling according to the woman. He had shown her the cipher John had found down by the train tracks and she recognized the symbols. She had told him that it was a message but unfortunately their time was cut short when the assassin (coincidently Soo-lin's brother) arrived. Sherlock had tried to divert the man's attention and draw him away from the woman, but ultimately failed.

Officer Dimmock arrived on the scene shortly after the girl's murder. At first he had doubted the detective, which of course infuriated him, but once the man had the chance to see the gang tattoos located on the now three victim's feet, he relented. Not to much surprise he then became relatively enthusiastic about aiding Sherlock in unraveling the mystery. Dimmock proved useful to some extent, he allowed the detective to continue, plus he even had all of the first victim's books brought to the flat. Upon arrival he also delivered the photo John had taken, with what appeared to be the first two words translated. Sherlock determined Soo-lin must have been in the process of translating it for him when she was killed.

Sherlock hadn't spoken with John since their fight earlier in the day and it was beginning to wear on him. John had always helped him with things like looking through the books; it felt wrong doing it on his own. When he went up to ask for help however the boy insisted that he had work the next morning and couldn't be bothered. He could hardly concentrate on the books with everything he was _feeling_ about John. Every time he'd make a witty comment or clever deduction the silence was deafening, he'd grown used to John's laugh and praises. By around five in the morning he'd given up and gone to his room to play the violin. Unable to sleep, yet he lacked concentration. He had a strong urge to leap out of his room and harass the boy until he gave in when he heard John begin getting ready to leave. He decided against it when the thought of John becoming even angrier at him crossed his mind.

All hope was not lost though! His heart skipped a beat when he heard the boy pause by the piles of books. The unmistakable sounds of pages being turned brought him straight to the door. He quieted his breathing to take in everything he could. John was certainly looking through the evidence, even writing things down it seemed! About what, he couldn't be sure, but what was certain was John still held interest for the cases. With any luck he could use that as leverage so to win back the boy's affections.

So a plan was hatched as the blonde went about his day at work and the detective sat at home scheming. It was around supper time when John finally arrived back at home to find Sherlock sitting on the sofa with his knees tucked beneath his chin. The lanky flat mate smiled as the boy shuffled into the kitchen and prepared himself a cup of tea. Sherlock rose from his seat and headed towards the kitchen before John could finish making his cuppa and make a beeline back to his room. The boy's back was turned to the detective when the tall man entered the room. John had just added the milk and begun to stir when Sherlock cleared his throat.

"John?"

The boy turned around and eyed the man warily.

"Yes? Something new you'd like to regulate? Has tea become to dangerous for me to consume on the daily bases or something?"  
John scoffed before taking a sip from his mug. It took nearly all of Sherlock's will power not to point out just how melodramatic he was being, he reminded himself of his goal. Keep John.

"No…I'm here to offer up an apology of sorts."

"Oh? How's that?"

The boy questioned cautiously narrowing his eyes slightly.

"I still feel I had good reason for putting those rules in place; however I realize you have taken personal offense to them and I plan to remedy the situation. I have acquired tickets to a traveling circus; I thought perhaps you could use them to take one of your many female companions on a date."

Sherlock stated passively while he shouted internally. He wanted for John to forgive him so bad, but vocalizing encouragement and providing the means for John to continue his association with those _girls_. It brought bile to the back of his throat.

"Well…that's awfully nice of you Sherlock. Certainly out of character though. I appreciate the effort, really I do, but a couple of tickets aren't going to fix this."

The boy sighed leaning against the counter.

"I had hoped…well I thought perhaps it would make you see that I am open to girls at the flat and you being in more dangerous situations…I just worry that you're not prepared, please, you must understand. I just want you to take proper precautions."

Sherlock pleaded desperately hoping the boy would understand.

"I know you mean well…"

John confessed quietly into his mug before his eyes shot back up to meet Sherlock's.

"What do you mean by 'dangerous situation'? What sort of circus is this?"

The detective smiled at the boy's wit and waved his hand in the air as dismissively.

"Oh, you know…the sort that performs by day…murders at night."

His smirk widened as John's eyes nearly popped out of his skull.

"You think they're behind the murders? They disguised themselves as a circus? Wow…does this mean you're letting me back on the case?"

Sherlock hesitated for a moment. He really did want John to help him again, but when he remembered how terrified he'd been finding John on those steps…he knew he had to do the right thing. If anything were to happen to John it would destroy him.

"Of course you can help with the case; I never said you couldn't, so long as you abide by the rules."

John frowned at that and his hand tightened around his mug.

"So, what, you're taking me there to rub it in my face?"

He sneered casting the detective an angry glare.

"No, not to rub it in your face, but to remind you how much fun it is John. It can still be fun while following the rules; I just need you to see that. I'm only trying to keep you unharmed."

Sherlock insisted resisting the urge to reach out and touch the boy, reassure him of the honesty in his words.

"I know you are, I just wish you had some faith in me is all."

Silence enveloped the two after that for a few moments. The detective wished earnestly that he knew what to say, what to do for John to forgive him and accept the terms.

"I'll go with you, but I'm still not happy about this. You really underestimate my ability."

The boy said with one final sigh and a sip of his tea, and then headed up the stairs. It wasn't ideal, but Sherlock could work with it.

* * *

"I haven't been to a circus in ages!"

"No? Well this one is all the way from China."

"Oh! That's so cool! I've never seen a Chinese circus! Do you think there will still be clowns, I love clowns."

"I'm not sure…what do you think Sherlock? Sherlock?"

The detective's nerves were wearing thin; he wasn't sure how much more of this he could take. This girl was a nightmare, a horrible, horrible nightmare. She was small and curvy and red haired and big lipped and small minded. _Everything a teenage boy could ever want_ Sherlock thought bitterly. With every word that passed through her engorged lips he was driven further and further over the edge. By the end of the night he didn't doubt a career change from consulting detective to murderer. How could John not see how annoying she was? The way she clung to him, putting her dirty hands all over him, her high pitched laugh, her incessant need to point out the obvious, and the way she stared so vacantly! Even John could see this girl was an idiot! How could she be better than a genius detective?

"Sherlock? Are you listening?"

John asked sounding on the verge of annoyance.

"Not really. Why? What did you say that required my attention?"

Sherlock replied coldly.

"We're here, and Valerie wants to know if there are any clowns."

John answered slightly irritated.

"Of course there aren't any clowns! This isn't some children's show, its performance art! You want clowns you can go to any two bit fair."

Sherlock exasperated with full contempt for the girl now gripping even tighter to John's strong arm.

"There's no need to be rude, Sherlock."

John reprimanded wrapping his hand around Valerie's grasp on his arm. The detective did his best to suppress a snarl at the increased contact; it was enough to make him vomit.

Once inside the three of them filed in behind the few people who were in attendance (various people from mostly artistic backgrounds). Sherlock observed his surroundings in hopes of finding some useful clues, no such luck. He was able to ascertain some interesting information on Valerie in the process of observation however. She was a year younger than John and clearly knew him through work by the state of her nails. She was obviously very interested in John which would have made him shake with rage if it weren't so obvious that John was not nearly as keen to her.

When the show finally began Sherlock was intent on studying all the performers, knowing the murderer was among them. He desperately needed to get back stage if he was ever going to truly confirm his hypothesis though. John and Valerie seemed enamored with the performance which was a perfect cover. He slipped away silently and made his way behind the large red curtain. There were dozens of costumes and bags of makeup and props, but no murder weapon. Then, out of the corner of his eye he spotted it. An average sized aerosol can containing yellow spray paint. He gave it an experimental spray only to discover that it was exactly as it seemed. He smiled in the dimly lit room proud of himself for another feat of logic.

Suddenly there was a shuffling of feet behind him and he spun around to see none other than the acrobat from the show. The man lunged forward at Sherlock and the detective scrambled backwards to avoid his reach. The man was fast and the brunette had to be quick to stay clear of his grasp. He attempted to land a punch on the man, hopefully buy himself a moment to make a speedy escape. The acrobat side stepped the move however and grabed a hold of the detective's arm, twisting it in a painful angle. Sherlock cried out and while it seemed near impossible with the pain emanating from said arm he wriggled it free and simultaneously lashed out with his other hand bringing it down hard across the acrobat's face. The man stumbled backward giving Sherlock enough time to slip under the folds of the curtain once again.

As he enters back into the room he spots John instantly; he's standing in amongst the small group looking around the room anxiously. It dawns on the detective that the boy had noticed his absence and was disturbed by it. The glowing moment doesn't last long as the acrobat is soon chasing after him through the curtain and wrapping a thick cloth around his pale neck. Sherlock attempted to make a sound, to cry out for help, but nothing came out. With the pressure on is neck building his vision begins to blur, which is why he doesn't even notice when a very foolish but very brave young man rushes towards him in an instant.

"Sherlock!"

John called out as he came within a few meters of the detective and his attacker. The boy wasted no time in charging forward and crashing full force into the acrobat's torso causing the man to grunt loudly as he fell to the ground. Now freed, Sherlock's throat begins to protest, the detective coughed and wheezed as his lungs fought for air. John affectively tackled the man to the ground but had not managed to subdue him yet. The two struggled against each other on the ground while the detective slowly regained composure. Sherlock began breathing somewhat normally again and looked over just as the acrobat's fist connected with John's jaw, the sound of which made the brunette go cold. It was an impressive hit by anyone's standards, the kind Sherlock had seen send bigger men to their knees. To his amazement John just shakes it off and brings his own fist down onto the man's face with a loud thump.

"John!"

A shrill voice calls out, and for a confusing moment Sherlock thinks it was him because he wants to call out to the boy, but he realizes his throat is too tight for any words to come out. Then the originator of the voice appears and the detective can't tell if he's relieved his voice hasn't gone up twenty octaves or furious he isn't the one running to John's side.

"Are you ok?"

The wretched girl asks as John stands up. He nods at her as he brushes himself off and casts a glare down at the unconscious man. The boy walked over to Sherlock and extended one calloused hand out for the man to take, and the detective does and as he does he revels in the feel of their hands touching even as it lasts only the briefest of moments.

"Good thing I'm not on the case, huh?"

John asks with a cocky smile which Sherlock finds far too appealing. What he wouldn't give to cover those smug lips with his own.

"Yes, well…thank you."

Sherlock stammers, lost between his thoughts of kisses and John's blow to the jaw.

"How's your jaw? Not many can take a hit like that, though adrenalin may have played a role I suppose."

The detective continues, hoping to distract his mind with the more productive line of thought.

"Sore, but I'll be fine. I told you I can handle myself in a fight, one of the most important qualities a good fighter can possess is the ability to take a punch. And I've got that in truck loads."

John said with a sarcastic grin that both breaks and melts the brunette's heart. Before he can comment further the horrible Valerie creature returns with her disgusting paws all over John once again.

"You were so brave John! Did he hurt you too bad? Maybe we should get you home and look at it."

She continues ghosting her feminine fingers over John's jaw line. Sherlock fought the urge to reach out and swat her hands away.

"Let's get a cab shall we?"

He gritted out through his teeth leading the two adolescents out along with the rest of the panicked audience.

The cab ride is full of coos and kisses and it makes the detective sick. He should be the one admiring John's bravery, kissing his slowly forming bruises, running his hand through those sandy locks. Instead it's this Valerie creature, and it makes his stomach churn violently. When they reach the flat she doesn't leave, worse, John doesn't seem intent on _making_ her leave. They climb the stairs to the flat and collectively clamber into the living area. Sherlock throws himself down on the sofa, making a point _not_ to look at the boy and his bear.

"Do you have a first aide kit or anything?"

The disgusting, vile, abhorred girl asks and the detective's heart tightens in his chest, because yes they do, and he knows just where it is. John knows just where it is, and he will take her to it, and it doesn't take the world's only consulting detective to figure out what happens next.

"Yeah, it's up in my room."

The boy replies innocently. With each step the pair makes up the stairs to the blonde's room Sherlock's heart drops. Just as the door opens he hears the heavier set of steps, John's set, pause.

"Sherlock, do you need anything?"

The detective's eyes sting and he curses himself as he holds back his waves of anger and despair. He wants to say yes, yes John, I need _you_, I need you to be rid of that girl and to be with me, I need you next to me, I need to breathe you, I need to _have_ you! He can't say that though, and he won't.

"No."

He answers and his throat constricts as he says it causing the word to catch awkwardly in his throat. The boy pays no mind however and simply enters his room without another word. He lets out a weak whimpering noise as he hears the springs in the above mattress squeal under the weight of the two bodies. It's too much and he doesn't want to stick around to hear the rest, to be able to deduce every twist and turn of their bodies as they writhe against each other. The detective collects his coat and scarf that he'd so recently deposited on the arm chair and hurries out of the flat.

Sherlock rushes into the crisp night air taking in several shaky breaths as he stumbles onto the sidewalk. He hates this, these emotions, causing him to break and hurt like this. All he wants to do is tear his heart from his chest, to put an end to this horrible caring business. He wants for it to just stop, if he can't have John, then it shouldn't be allowed for Sherlock to long for him so strongly. The detective looses himself in his thoughts of self pity and hatred; he is completely unaware of his immediate surrounds as he made his way down the street. It's because of this that he did not see or hear the approaching members of the black lotus creep behind him. Because of this massive oversight, Sherlock is too shocked to react when the two men grab him from behind and haul him into a large black van.

* * *

When the detective woke up there was a dull pounding in his head and he realized almost immediately he was in one of the lesser known underpasses in London. He groaned out loud as he realized the high improbability of him making it out of this one with out a few life threatening injuries. An older woman stood in front of him with a gun pointed to his temple.

"How nice to meet you Mr. Holmes, we've been following you closely."

She says bringing the gun closer.

"Oh really, like what you've seen then? Well I'll have you know I don't offer my services to the criminally minded."

The detective states clearly, hoping he can buy himself some time, with any luck Mycroft's men caught the scuffle on the CCTV's.

"We need to know where it is. We know you've been looking and you're the best, so tell me, where is it?"

She said threateningly and took the safety off her gun as emphasis.

"I honestly don't know, I still haven't broken your code."

Sherlock deadpanned, although he sneered a bit at the thought of him not solving the riddle.

"I implore your Mr. Holmes, don't make a fool of yourself, or I will shoot you."

Sherlock stiffened in his chair, these were not the types to be messed with, she seemed very content with killing him. All she wanted was whatever had been stolen.

"I don't know. I didn't get that far."

He said loudly.

"Too bad."

The woman responded and pushed the gun to the side of his head. The metal was cool and brought him close to trembling. He squeezed his eyes shut tight and braced himself for impact when he heard it.

"Stop!"

The young voice called out from a spot far too close, under the underpass but out of sight. The older woman looked around angrily.

"Who said that?"  
She barked out and turned so the gun was facing out towards the entrance.

"I'm John Watson and I'm here to save my flat mate!"

The boy answered confidently. The older woman laughed and motioned for the guards to seek the boy out. Sherlock twisted frantically in the hopes of freeing himself, he had to save John.

"John get out of here! You're out numbered!"

The detective cried out, begging to a god he wasn't even sure existed that John make it out of this alive.

"Don't be blarmy, I called D.I. Lestrade, they've got the place surrounded."


	15. Chapter 15

**Runaway Home**

**Chp 15**

**I'd like to thank everyone for all the lovely reviews once more and apologize for the last chapter. I…wow…did not like it. Reviewed it today and realized that, so…sorry for that. Hope this one is better! By the way…this is so not cannon, but…yeah…I did it anyway.**

John was no Sherlock Holmes, but he knew how to observe. Which is why after ten minutes of one of his better snogs he came to a disturbing realization, it was quiet. The whole flat was silent other than the sound of his and Valerie's bodies moving against each other on the bed. Part of him was glad; he rarely had a girl over without having to be interrupted by some loud crash or explosion coming from the kitchen. Another, more analytical part was worried. Sherlock should be making noise by now, he always does, more than likely just to get on the boy's nerves. He becomes so consumed with curiosity it soon causes adverse affects to his kissing.

With a deep internal sigh he explained to Valerie that he'd gotten a very bad headache, which she believes whole heartedly. As he escorted her out of the flat and into a cab he cursed himself for being so attached to the detective. He had had a girl in his room, a very affectionate girl, and now he was sending her away to look for his flat mate. Just as he was going to make his way back up to the flat to give a more thorough search he spotted Sherlock's phone shattered on the sidewalk just a few meters away. He ran towards the object and let out a gasp. There were two droplets of blood on the ground near by that any one other than the consulting detective's flat mate would have missed. He picked up the broken object and looked up at the CCTV camera pointed directly at him. Without a seconds hesitation he dove his hand into his pocket to retrieve his own phone. He'd switched it to silent when they'd gone in to see the show and so was not aware that the politician had called him three times in the past five minutes. With shaky hands he hit the call button and didn't even have to hear one full ring before Mycroft answered.

"He's been taken John, by the black lotus."

John stared with wide eyes at the broken phone in his hand and the blood on the ground. Black lotus? Great, it was just like Sherlock to get himself kidnapped by a gang.

"Is he going to be ok? do you have-"

"No, we lost him. They took him in a van, without his phone I can't track their movements. I've got a team of men working on breaking their cipher. Don't worry, we'll get him, just go back inside and stay put, lock the doors. Chances are they've taken him either because of his actions tonight or for information on their missing jade pin, either way we cannot ignore the possibility of them taking you as a means of manipulating my brother."

John was certain his heart stopped, this couldn't be happening. These people were murderers and now they had his best mate. With a sudden rush of clarity Mycroft's words finally settled in and the boy felt his proverbial light bulb light up.

"I know where he is."  
"John don't-"

The blonde didn't wait for the politician to finish, there wasn't any time. He pocketed both phones and turned back to the road. It took a frustratingly long time for him to finally catch a cab and once he did he was near frantic. There was no way he could be certain, but something in his gut told him that it was the only place that made any sense.

The abandoned tramway tunnel. That's where they had said to take the stolen merchandise, the jade pin, in their cipher. Truthfully John knew it had been petty not to tell Sherlock he'd figured it out, but he felt like being a prick for a while. When he'd seen the stacks of books and the two translated words his interest was undoubtedly peaked. Then he'd spotted in the stacks of books still remaining in the bins, a copy of 'London a-z'. It struck him instantly; it was an odd book for two blokes residing in the city to own, but not for somebody new to it, not for a boy who was running away to the city from a small town. He knew that book practically cover to cover, he'd read it every night for practically a month before he'd taken the train in. Once he confirmed that he was right he completed the cipher for himself, vowing to only tell Sherlock if more lives were at risk, or if he allowed him back on the case. He cursed himself for being so childish; they might not be here now if he'd just given the detective his translation.

The cab came to a rough stop at the side of the road; John could see the tramway entrance clearly just a few yards away. He paid the cabby and started running towards it until he skidded to an abrupt stop. Suddenly it dawned on him that he had absolutely no weapon and no plan. He considered turning back around to go get Lestrade and some yarders, but it was late and that would take time. He could call Mycroft but again that would take time. Time he wasn't sure the detective had. He would have to act fast, possibly sneak in and rescue the man without being noticed…not highly likely, but he didn't have much choice.

He rushed to the entrance of the tramway tunnel and heard the echo of the safety being taken off a gun. His heart began pounding in his chest. He could hear the detective talking to a woman, from the sounds of it the same one from the show earlier. The boy edged closer so he could just barely see the woman holding a gun to Sherlock's temple, his breath caught in his throat. They were talking and John thought for a moment that the great detective might be able to weasel his way out of this.

"Too bad."

The words struck John almost violently. He watched as the gun was pressed into the man's head and John could not contain himself any longer.

"Stop!"

"Who said that?"

He froze for a moment. This was a gang, he had no weapon, and his friend had a gun to his head. Adrenalin began pumping through his system immediately and he felt an over whelming sense of calm. He should be scared, frantic, panicking, but instead he was incredibly focused. He'd worry about his oddness later though; right now he was more relieved they'd taken the gun off of Sherlock.

"I'm John Watson and I'm here to save my flat mate!"

He called out boldly. Not the line of legend or anything, but it's the first thing that came to mind.

"John get out of here! You're outnumbered!"

Sherlock shouted hysterically and it made John want to run out and hold the man, reassure him somehow. That's not an option though, if he ram out now he'd be shot. He'd gotten himself backed into a wall and his options seemed very limited. Quickly he came to a decision that he was not so sure the detective would agree with but it seemed to be the better option at that point.

"Don't be blarmy, I called D.I. Lestrade, they've got the place surrounded."

He yelled hoping that it brought some peace of mind to the detective as well as accomplishing his ultimate goal. The woman exchanged looks with her two men and Sherlock relaxed just slightly. Some small part of John registers that they all believe him, he has successfully told his first convincing lie, congratulations could be made later though.

"If you have us surrounded by police like you say, then why do they send in a child?"

The woman answers gripping her gun tighter as her eyes search for John in the darkened tunnel.

"I'm unarmed and non-threatening; they just want you to send out the detective. There's no need for anyone to be hurt tonight."

John smirks to himself as the lie flows easily over his tongue, he'd never felt so alive.

"We send him out then we get arrested. I think we'll hold onto the detective until we're away from here."

The woman says motioning for the men to grab Sherlock and John had to cover his mouth to quiet the curse that escaped his lips.

"No! They will come after you for him, he's important to them. Leave him there and escape out the back, if you go quickly I won't tell them you're here, I'll say I found him alone while you escape."

The woman raised her hand and the men stopped, she was considering what John had to say and it made the boy hopeful once more.

"How do I know you're not lying? There could be people stationed at the back entrance as well. We are not so easily fooled boy."

John gritted his teeth and decided that smart criminals were his least favorite.

"Take me."

He shouted as the men moved towards the detective again. Sherlock's head snapped in John's direction.

"Don't be an idiot John!"

Sherlock practically growled but the boy ignored his protest.

"They need him; they'll chase you down for him. I'm just his flat mate, important enough they won't risk you hurting me, but not an integral part of their unit so you will have plenty of time to get wherever it is you're going."

He explained silently begging them to just agree. It was silent for a moment as the woman considered his offer.

"Come forward."

John frozes for a minute, unsure if it was the best idea, he couldn't be sure they'd fallen for this, it could be a trick. He could get shot.

"No! John stay right where you are, do you understand me? You are not going with them!"

Sherlock cries out desperately and it pulls at the boy's heart, but he knows what he has to do. Even if they do shoot him he has no choice, this is his best chance at getting Sherlock out alive. He slowly walked out into the open with his hands raised in surrender.

"No!"

The detective almost screamed as John came into view. The blonde hoped he could see just how sorry he was for having to ignore him. Sherlock just looked horribly distraught and was struggling earnestly against the ropes that bound him.

"Good boy. Now, no funny business. We will leave Mr. Homes here; maybe with you as incentive he will bring me back my property."

The woman says with a smirk and presses the gun's barrel against the back of John's head, he looked over to Sherlock and gave a smile to comfort the man but it looks weaker than he wanted it to and it only seemed to make the detective worse.

"Don't do this, stop, I can figure it out, give me time!"

Sherlock pleads as his eyes lock onto the gun.

"If we stay then your police friends will come in soon looking for the boy. I'm not going to take that chance."

She stated plainly pushing the gun harder into the base of the blonde's skull.

"Move."

She ordered and John felt compelled to comply.

"I'll find you John!"

The detective called out panicked.

"I know, I'll be waiting for you."

He calls back hoping to sound more confident than he felt. Because he'd gone from adrenaline rushed excitement to crushing reality now, and fear was starting to seep in. There was no guarantee how well he'd be treated, or if they were just bluffing all together, this could be his last night on earth. As they made their way down the tunnel he worried for his life and Sherlock's. His plan wasn't well thought through and he didn't know how long it would take for people to find the detective. He clenched his fists to prevent them from shaking as they grew closer to the exit. It was perfectly silent as the four made their way out to the clearing and he could practically hear the smug smile growing on the woman's face. Picking up the pace a bit they began rushing over to a black van parked near by.

Without warning the sound of loud sirens erupts, shattering the quiet that had once blanketed them. The four spin around to see five panda cars skidding to a halt in front of them. Officers began to pour out and position themselves behind car doors aiming their weapons at the group. The woman grabbed John violently pulling the boy against herself and moved the gun to the side of his face so the police men could clearly see it. John was well aware now that he had become a human shield in the middle of a shoot out, the shock of which almost overpowered his surprise to see the yard there.

"Lower your weapon!"

A gruff voice ordered and John realized that it belonged to Lestrade who happened to be at the front of the group with his finger wound tightly around his trigger. The woman's nails dug into John's side and he had to suppress a grunt.

"You said there would be no police back here."

She snarled and John couldn't think of anything to say because he had honestly believed there _wouldn't_ be any police there.

"I'm only going to ask you one more time, lower your weapon."

The inspector growled tightening his grip on his gun.

"Or you will what? Shoot? Go ahead; you will kill the boy in the process."  
The woman threatened pushing the gun further into John's temple. The inspector glared at the woman but made no further comment. A tense silence spread over the crowd as the officers tried to plan their next move. The boy could tell how this would end, Lestrade wouldn't risk his life to a fire fight, he was going to have to let them go. Letting them go meant John could be dead by morning, especially since the woman thought he'd lied to her. He decided that once again he'd have to lead with his gut and go for what seemed the best way out, though there was a chance he could still wind up dead. When he felt how tightly the woman's fingers gripped onto his side he knew it was his only chance of surviving the night.

In a feat John would describe in his later years as stupid, desperate, impossible, miraculous, barmy, and just a bit awesome, he shot his left hand up with lightening speed to grab the woman's wrist holding the gun. Not giving her the chance to react John rapidly twisted her wrist so that she cried out in shock and dropped the gun into John's other hand. The boy immediately backed away holding the gun up pointed at her face with steady hands. Her expression was priceless and something he would treasure for the rest of his life, part of him still wishes he could have seen the faces of all the officers when the boy managed to take the gun from a prominent gang leader.

"I think you can arrest them now inspector."

John said breathlessly as he stared down the furious older woman. Multiple officers were swarming the three gang members instantly and a large smile spread across his face. He almost jumped when he felt a large hand rest on his shoulder but then he looked up he realized it was Lestrade.

"Guess you're not as helpless as I thought."

The older man said with a disbelieving smirk which only made the smile on John's face even bigger. John lowered the gun and handed it over to the inspector proudly.

"Don't know how Sherlock will take this though."

He continued and John felt his face fall considerably. Sherlock was not going to be happy.

* * *

"Lestrade said I could make a good D.I. one day."

"Lestrade's an idiot; you'd be wasted as a D.I."

"You're still mad."

…

"I'm not mad."

Yeah, right. The detective had been actively ignoring the subject of John's half baked rescue since they'd untied him. While the boy wasn't looking forward to when Sherlock finally blew his top, he'd rather they'd just got it over with. For whatever reason Sherlock was going to avoid it for as long as possible though and it aggravated the blonde. This was probably the fourth time he'd tried to initiate the conversation and it fell flat just like all the other times. The detective was staring out his cab window with determination which only made it more annoying. John wished he'd just yell at him, scream at him, anything.

When the cab pulled into the bank Sherlock practically threw his money at the driver and bolted out of the taxi. With a deep sigh John followed behind quickening his pace so he could catch up with the detective inside the building. He wondered why Sherlock had even let him come along since he was clearly angry about John's involvement with this case, it worried him. Was it possible he'd done irrevocable damage to their friendship? He really hoped not, he'd only wanted to experience the same excitement and he couldn't not save his best mate. They took the escalator up to the next floor and walked at relatively the same pace towards Mr. Wilkes's office. When they came to a split in a hall way however the detective took the opposite route.

"Sherlock, where are you going?"

"Need to have a word with Vancoon's secretary."

The boy sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose before observing the man again.

"What about Mr. Wilkes?"

John asked with disgruntlement.

"You talk to him if you'd like, the money will help fund some of my more costly experiments."

Sherlock replied with growing disinterest.

"Yeah, and help pay for repairs when you're done."

The blonde scoffed but the detective didn't pay any attention to his mocking tone.

"Alright, this should only take a second; I'll meet you by the escalators, yeah?"

Sherlock nodded curtly before rushing down the hallway. John grimaced as he turned and made his way towards the banker's office. He was dreading the visit, even more now that Sherlock wouldn't be accompanying him. Mr. Wilkes had been cruel to the detective and therefore was not someone in his good books. The door was closed when he came upon it and part of him wanted to just turn back. He hadn't even been interested in the money; he just wanted Sherlock to talk to him. The boy knocked on the door hesitantly; it wouldn't due to back down now, he didn't have any real reason to do so anyway.

"How can I help you?"

Mr. Wilkes's slimey voice greeted John as the door swung open.

"Hey I'm here about-"

"You're Sherlock's little friend! I was waiting for this visit, come in!"

The banker insisted ushering the boy into his office. John followed behind him reluctantly hoping for the meeting to be over quick.

"So, how'd the bugger do it?"

Mr. Wilkes asked leaning against his desk.

"The windows, he snuck in through the windows. Put a bar across them and all your problems will be solved."

John explained briefly not wanting to go into detail about the matter.

"Well, not all of them…"

The man muttered as he pulled out his check book.

"What do you mean by that?"

The boy questioned not entirely sure what the banker was playing at.

"Well, it's no business of mine really, but I'm worried about you."

Mr. Wilkes clarified as he signed his name on the check.

"Excuse me?"  
This bloke had to be out of his mind, why would he be worried about John?

"I know Sherlock, possibly better than you do, we went to uni together. Believe it or not I was one of his best mates there…he can be cruel and uncaring at times, am I right?"

Now John was really confused. He thought about snatching the check and just dashing out the door, but his curiosity won out. In the end he knew he just had to here what this bloke was trying to say.

"I wouldn't really say cruel, he just doesn't always get social graces. He's insensitive, sure, but that's just in his nature. He's still a good man."

The boy said defensively, it was easy for people to get the wrong idea about the detective so he'd learned the best ways to explain his behavior to people.

"You are very loyal aren't you? It's sweet, really it is, but have some self preservation! He's got to be demanding…what does he pay you?"

What does he pay him? Was he offering him a job or something? This was all very odd and the boy did not like it one bit. He shuffled backwards a bit and held out his hand to receive the check not wanting to continue the discussion.

"He is who he is. As for pay I don't worry about that much as I find it just as enjoyable as he does; besides I don't have to pay for the flat."

John replied with a smug grin, feeling that he'd put the man in his place. His confidence faltered however when he took in Mr. Wilkes's predatory smile.

"That's all? Come now, surely you know you can do better."

The older man said with a chuckle and pushed himself off the desk. John had the strong urge to back away as the banker drew closer.

"Better? I'd say that's a pretty good deal considering how expensive flats can be."

The boy stammered under Mr. Wilkes's ravenous stare.

"Don't play coy, you know its table scraps compared to what some boys fetch. Especially ones in your condition, you look to be in perfect health."

Now John was completely lost and no longer had any desire to collect the money, he just needed to go. He moved to make his way to the door but the banker grabbed his arms and turned him around so that he ended up with his backside pressed against the man's desk. Mr. Wilkes smiled down at him hungrily as he did his best to wiggle his way out of the man's grasp.

"Let go!"

The boy snarled up at the man, refusing to let any panic show in his voice.

"Come now, you don't expect me to make a purchase without inspecting the product do you?"

He growled moving a possessive hand across John's chest. The boy suppressed a whimper and brought his hand up to push the man off himself. Mr. Wilkes only grew more insistent at the protest and shoved the boy down on to the desk. The banker acted like a man possessed climbing on top of John and placing several rough kisses on his lips and neck.

"Stop, get off me!"

John shouted praying that if he didn't listen at least someone would hear him and get help. The boy thrashed beneath the banker, rolling his hips up to knock the man off the desk. Mr. Wilkes did not move an inch but instead moaned deeply.

"You're a fighter, that's good. I'll pay you handsomely for repeats of this performance."

Despite himself John couldn't help but feel another wave of anger; it seemed the trend of people in London thinking he's a rent boy hadn't gone away. He did his best to free his hands that had been pinned at the wrist above his head by one of Mr. Wilkes's surprisingly strong grip.

"Mmm, perhaps a free sample is in order."

The banker's free hand roamed down the boy's chest and over the expanse of his quivering stomach until it reached the button of his jeans.

"No! Sherlock!"

John yelled bucking his hips in a feeble attempt to remove the man's prying hand. His breathing became erratic as the button popped and the zipper was being pulled down soon after.

"Help!"

The boy almost sobbed as Mr. Wilkes began biting his neck. He shut his eyes tight and tried to think about something else, anything else, anything that wasn't that man's vile tongue sliding across his skin. For a moment he thought it'd worked, that the thoughts had freed him from the sensations, that he could ignore what was happening completely. His illusion was shattered however when he felt two strong hands cupping his cheeks. At first he'd flinched away from the touch and squeezed his eyes even tighter, but there was something so inviting about the touch that made him crack open his eyes to see who the hands belonged to.

"John?"

Sherlock's voice rang out with an almost angelic quality. There was concern and anger in his voice, but that didn't matter at the time, the only thing that mattered was that it was Sherlock and most definitely not Mr. Wilkes.

"Sherlock!"

The boy cried out and sprung forward to embrace his flat mate with earnest.

"Oh god, I didn't think you'd come! Mr. Wilkes he-he-"

"I know. I heard you yell down the hall. I _saw_ him…are you ok?"

All the anger in his voice drained away as he searched John's eyes for the answers. John nodded but it must not have seemed convincing as the worry only deepened in the man's eyes. Sherlock pulled John into a tighter hug, cradling the boy's head against his shoulder.

"I'm so sorry; I should have been here sooner."

The detective continued with a wavering voice.

"I-I'm fine now…guess that knife would have come in handy, huh?"

John said quietly. He was stubborn and hated to admit defeat, but Sherlock had been right about a few things in his list, and if they were ever going to get past this there was going to have to be a compromise. Besides, it was true, that knife really would have come in handy.

"I suppose it would have. I'm not really concerned about that right now though. I'm more worried about you…as far as I can tell you haven't received any physical damage."

The detective said as his fingers ghosted over John's face, pausing at his bruised lips and nearly vibrating with rage above his abused neck.

"It's ok Sherlock, you stopped it, I'm just happy it's done ok?"

John explained softly hoping to calm the man down.

"No, it's not ok! _This_ is not _ok_, offering yourself up to a gang is not _ok_, almost being killed by a cabbie is not _ok_! You don't care what happens to you, do you? You're just looking for a rush!"

Sherlock rants and part of John is relieved that this talk is finally taking place, while another part feels far too frayed to participate.

"I didn't do this. He did."

John stated flatly, sincerely hoping the detective hadn't meant that one.

"I know…I know…but there are more of him out there you know. Every time you work a case with me there is a risk of meeting some very unsavory people, of being in life threatening situations. Is that what you want?"

The brunette inquired with an amount of emotion that was uncommon for the man.

"If you're asking about whether I plan on getting myself killed the answer is no, I do like the danger though…you know I didn't save you last night for some adrenalin high, right? I did it to save you, because that's what mates do."

John responded softly placing a comforting hand on the detective's shoulder.

"Yes, some part of me registered that…we should go. Mycroft's men will be here soon to collect _him_."

John followed the detective's gaze towards the unconscious man lying in the corner of the room with multiple forming bruises on his face.

"Ok, are we good though? I don't want you mad at me anymore. I know I upset you by showing up last night but I couldn't stay away, I-"

"I know. It's in your nature, I had been foolish to think I could keep you under lock and key like that. I realize now that you will be tagging along whether I like it or not and that you do possess a multitude of abilities. I'm not angry so much as wary…I'd really like it if maybe we both made some rules together…"

Sherlock expounded.

"I would like that very much."

John said with a smile that the detective reciprocated and with that the two of them left the banker's office.

"Did you find the pin?"

John asked idly as the two of them finally managed to flag down a crab.

"Yes."

"You don't seem too happy about that."

"They killed her."

"Excuse me, what? The secretary?"

"No, do keep up, the leader. She was shot by a sniper last night while in lock up, no confession."

John glared out the window as he processed the information; it was a lot to take in. After another few moments in silence he turned to the detective again.

"Are we going to look into that?"

He questioned and Sherlock looked at him dismissively.

"No, probably just someone higher up than her on the food chain, not our area."

He explained and John went back to looking out his window. He could still practically feel the man's touch, his tongue, his teeth; it was enough to make him vomit. His body shivered from the fresh memories which Sherlock picked up on or so John assumed when the detective edged closer to wrap his large hand around John's. The boy shut his eyes and focused on the feel of Sherlock's hand, and the possibilities of the countless adventures they would share.


	16. Chapter 16

**Runaway Home**

**Chp 16**

**Sorry this took so long! I'll try to put the next one up super soon! **

As far as Sherlock knew, teenage boys were not the most talkative when it came to their emotions. That being said, John had to be the worst of them. The boy hadn't said a word about the incident at the bank in the three months that had passed. Not consciously anyway. Which was why the detective had grown so concerned. He'd known John should talk about it, that it was important for the healing process, but he hadn't pushed him. Sherlock figured the blonde would come to him when he was ready; the man had never been as infuriated with himself for being wrong. Just a month ago they had been working on an exhausting case that had the pair running all across London in search of a kidnapper. When they'd finally arrived home they hadn't even bothered to walk to their rooms, the two of them collapsed in the living room on their respective pieces of furniture. The detective wasn't asleep long however as he was soon woken by the sound of John's whimpers and the thrashing of his body. It wasn't like that night more than a year ago, it was more desperate. Sherlock had launched himself off the sofa to comfort the boy as he practically convulsed in his arm chair. There were no words for the amount of panic he had felt. Then just as he'd brought his hands to the boy's shoulders to hold him still he could hear the faint whispers spouting from John's nightmares.

"Help. Get off. Help. Stop. Stop. Stop. Sherlock."

At first he didn't know what to make of it. The blonde eventually settled down and Sherlock lifted the limp boy back up to his bed and chose to sleep on the chair in his room in case he was needed again. The next morning he'd almost put the ordeal out of his mind despite John's complaints about his 'creepy' behavior, until he'd said it. The detective had asked the boy to stop complaining and to make a stop at the bank (he needed to make a withdrawal as his homelessness network required cash not credit), he noted that John became instantly tense. That's when it struck him; the dream had been about that day in the bank, about _Sebastian_. About that vile man and it made Sherlock nearly scream with rage. Obviously he told the boy to ignore his request and quickly made his way out of the flat to have a private phone call with Mycroft regarding the former banker's current state, which was satisfactory but no where near enough.

Ever since that night he'd been trying to initiate a conversation about what had happened. John wasn't taking to it. Most times he changed the subjects, others he just found an excuse to leave. The detective was growing more concerned as the days dragged on and John remained silent on the matter. Sherlock decided enough had been enough when on the night in question, almost exactly one month after the night spent in the living room, he heard the boy crying out in his sleep again. The detective was in the kitchen when he first heard the noise emanating from John's room. He placed his mold cultures on the counter and moved closer to the stairs. The noise hadn't been very distinct and he wasn't sure if he should do anything. When a very clear 'no' came out in a shout from up the stairs he didn't hesitate.

John was thrashing in his sheets and pleading with an invisible attacker. Sherlock let out a low growl at the thought of even an imaginary Sebastian trying to hurt John. Quickly he made his way to the side of the boy's bed and positioned himself on the edge so he could get a firm grip on the blonde's shoulders. John whimpered at the contact and tried to squirm away. Sherlock held fast and shook the boy gently to try and pull him from his nightmare.

"John."

He called out hoping to grab his attention. John merely continued to struggle in his grasp emitting low moans. Sherlock pulled him up to his chest and into a tight hug riding out all the shivers and shakes. Finally the boy began to calm down and his breathing evened out. The detective let out a sigh of relief when the blonde gently pulled away and looked up at the man with wide misty eyes.

"You were dreaming John."

Sherlock stated factually hoping it would offer some comfort to the boy. John nodded and his eyes shifted about the room nervously.

"You're back in your room, don't worry, he's not here."

The detective continued soothingly. The boy's eyes flashed to the man's instantly with a start.

"Yo-you know."

It wasn't a question, John knew he'd been discovered, not that he'd done such a great job of hiding it.

"Of course. It's no surprise John, it was a traumatic event. To be honest I was more concerned when you weren't showing any signs of distress."

Sherlock explained. John was quiet for a while after that and the detective sat there hoping that the boy would say something. During the stretch of silence he realized he was still holding the John's shoulders and had begun to rub circles on the blonde's bare skin with his thumbs. For a second he panicked, unsure if the touch was welcomed, but he noted that the boy was indeed beginning to relax and therefore he allowed himself to continue. It was an oddly pleasant act and it made him feel a sense of calm that was rare for his racing mind.

"Thank you, for waking me, but I should be fine now."

John said not meeting the detective's eyes. Sherlock would have sneered at the boy if it weren't for his emotional state at the time. It was high time they finally discuss the elephant in the room.

"John, you need to talk about this. You should realize what you're doing is idiotic, ignoring the issue will not make it go away."

Sherlock pressed and judging by the glare he got from the boy his insights were not welcomed.

"It's none of your business, I can deal with this whatever way I want."

John protested breaking away from the detective's hold.

"How isn't it my business? We're friends; friends take mutual interest in each other's well being don't they?"

Sherlock fumed. It was ridiculous, the boy should know better, _he_ was the one always making the brunette eat and sleep all the time! He was the one that demonstrated the very behavior he was now mimicking. Did he really think that Sherlock wasn't supposed to reciprocate?

"I appreciate the thought, but as your friend I'm asking you to leave it alone."

John replied quietly keeping his eyes cast down at the blankets.

"I can't do that. Do you really expect me to watch you continue to live your life like this?"

Sherlock questioned darkly while he attempted to make eye contact with the boy.

"Yes."

It was barely a whisper but the detective heard it loud and clear and it infuriated him.

"You're killing yourself by doing this John, it's not healthy. Mental health is just as important as the physical, if not more so. The nightmares are only the start John, it only gets worse. Eventually you might even have physical symptoms like a tick…you should see someone professionally."

Sherlock said with feeling but it only seemed to anger the boy more.

"Yes well, thanks for the advice, if I start tweaking out I'll rush down to the nearest therapist's office."

John said with a huff which took the detective off guard. This situation was becoming far more than an annoyance. John should have known better, he was normally so bright when it came to things like this, just not in regards to his own person. It hurt the man that his advice was deemed so unimportant or that John seemed to value his own personal health so little.

"You can't run away from _all_ of your problems John."

Sherlock said in a biting tone that appeared to physically strike the boy. John had flinched back and his face had grown red; for a long moment the two of them just sat there staring at each other growing angrier.

"Try me."

John finally growled as he lifted himself from his bed and hauled the detective out after him. With a few strong shoves he affectively removed the man from his room and slammed the door in his face.

"That could have gone better."

Sherlock mumbled to himself as he stomped down the stairs.

* * *

He hadn't seen John in the morning that day, the boy it seemed to have taken special precautions to avoid him. Sherlock had suspected as much, the boy wouldn't want to have another conversation about his nightmares. Typical, he was always ignoring himself and so keen to pay attention to others. It was despicable; didn't he realize that none of those people mattered even half as much as John? He'd been mumbling to himself about such things and reviewing John's past behaviors especially those witnessed the night before when Mrs. Hudson dropped off the post. Normally such an occurrence wasn't of great importance; this time however, was different. Mail had come in for John.

Sherlock analyzed the envelopes carefully, checking for traces of poisons or any other harmful elements and came to the conclusion that they were not sent to cause bodily harm. Well, at least not to the boy. They were letters from universities, from schools that were no where near London or Baker street or a certain infatuated detective. He binned the mail immediately. There was no need for John to see those. His mind went back to the night before, how angry John had been. The boy had run away from a broken home before, it wasn't so improbable to think he'd do it again.

His mind racing and his face growing paler by the minute he came to the conclusion that he had to find away around this whole university business. Perhaps he could find some incentive for John to stay, convince him not to attend any further schooling. He didn't need it anyway; he was smarter than most people already. The detective was sitting on the sofa deep in contemplation when it suddenly became very clear John was already home and angry. The blonde was questioning him about something and was already in his face about it.

"What?"  
The detective asked dumbly, not sure how much time had passed since he was certain he didn't remember John coming home or it being any time passed eleven in the morning.

"In the bin. You threw out my mail, why?"

John asked agitatedly and crossed his arms tightly over his chest. Oh, right, the mail. Why did John know he'd thrown it away? Well that probably didn't matter at the moment as it seemed the growing silence was only making John angrier.

"I didn't think you needed it."

Sherlock replied trying to sound truly confused and innocent.

"Bull shit. You're throwing a fit because I wouldn't talk to you last night. Well I can tell you your little stunt didn't accomplish anything, throwing out my mail won't get me to open up to you. So just drop it."

John scowled and moved to leave the room.

"That's not it at all John! I wish you would talk to me but I wouldn't destroy your property as a means to convince you."

John turned around and observed the detective for a moment before taking a step closer.

"Then why did you do it?"

Sherlock tensed at the question, should he answer it? He could think of a lie, but even a lie would most likely result in John being upset with him.

"I…why…why do you even need to go to college, I don't see the point in it."

He stammered looking everywhere but the boy.

"You don't see the point? Well that's not really my problem. You see it's not up to _you_ if I go to university or not, it's up to me!"

John practically shouted as he edged even closer to the detective.

"I know that! I know that…I just…you are quiet possibly the first person who has ever tolerated and understood me. John…I don't know what I'd do if you left now."

Sherlock finished quietly. The truth in his words struck the man; he hadn't meant to be _so_ honest. John's eyes went wide but he remained silent for one excruciatingly long minute.

"Oh…Sherlock, I didn't know you…cared so much."

The boy almost whispered as he stared at the man in front of him. Sherlock's eyes flicked to John's in a heart beat and he stood almost as fast.

"Of course I do. Don't be an idiot. There have been more than enough signs, plenty of indication. Why else would I care about your well being? You've observed me more closely than most, don't tell me you didn't notice how I'd come to concern myself for you more than anyone else."

Sherlock nearly shouted due to his mounting frustration. John looked at him in shock for a moment before taking a large breath.

"Right…I suppose…I should have. Sherlock…I, um, care about you too. I still want to go to college though, but that doesn't mean I have to leave. There are lots of schools inside of London I've been looking into."

"Then why did those letters come from universities outside of the city?"

Sherlock asked in a voice that came out far more panicked then he would have wanted. John smiled back at him with one of his legendarily kind smiles that took the detective's breath away.

"They send those whether I want them or not Sherlock, I've gotten lots of them before, I'm surprised this is the first you're seeing of them honestly. Look…I was only really angry about it because of last night. I don't care that you threw the letters away, ok?"

John said softly placing a hand on the man's arm as reassurance. Sherlock looked at the boy for a beat before deciding that he couldn't let that be the end of it, no matter how easy it would be to just give in to those big blue eyes.

"I'm glad to hear that John…I am. But, do you think we could maybe talk about the dreams, just a little? Please John, I'm just…I don't like not knowing what's bothering you."

Sherlock replied with great effort and then shifted on his feet uncomfortably. He wasn't sure how the boy would take it; he hadn't been happy last night clearly. The detective had to know though. The hand on his arm tightened and then dropped. Sherlock looked to the boy to see if he was going to start yelling soon but instead found that he looked sad.

"John…"

"No, um, I can…I will, just…it's not something I really…do. So, um, can we maybe order some take away first? I'd like to do that first, if that's ok."

"Of course John! Whatever you want, I'll order the take away now!"

Sherlock rushed to his phone before he realized he had absolutely no idea what any take away place's number was.

"John, do you-"

"I was going to walk there, to the Chinese place near by. I'd like to get some air."

Sherlock nodded and rushed to retrieve his coat.

"Alone…please."

The detective observed the boy for a moment, anxious about sending him off alone. It was obvious he wanted to think about this, to let himself work up to it. If there was any hope of success he would have to let the boy go alone.

"Ok, just bring your phone."

"Always."

With that John left and the detective let out a sigh of relief. Things, for at least the moment, were looking spectacularly up. He would have to see how the chat went of course, and there was no guarantee he could convince John to get any therapy. Also there was going to have to be a conversation with his brother about which universities would have to be opening their doors to the boy. For now though it all seemed as though it was perfectly manageable and within his grasp. Sherlock sat back on the sofa and relaxed, blissfully unaware of just what was about to happen in a mere few months.


	17. Chapter 17

**Runaway Home**

**Chp 17**

"But mate, it's going to be one of the best parties of the year! All the seniors are going; it's our last hoorah before we're all shipped out across England for university."

"I know, and I'd love to go and all, but my flat mate-"

"You and your bloody flat mate! What's he gonna care if you go to one party? He's always keeping you hauled up inside or out on those cases or whatever; it's just one night out!"

"I didn't say he wouldn't let me."

"Then what's the problem?"

"He'd want to come with me."

"What? Tell him it's only for vocational kids. He's like thirty or something isn't he?"

"Twenty seven, but yeah, that doesn't matter. He'll come in disguise. Remember that party at Jake's a few months back?"

"Yeah…"

"Yeah, my flat mate was the French exchange student."

"The one who shoved Marcy in the pool?"

"The very same."

"Why would he-"

"Because he's insane."

"Whoa...why don't you like, move out?"

"Because I'm insane."

"Ha, alright then mate, I'll see you on Monday!"

"Bye, have fun at the party."

John sighed as he watched Gale and the rest of his school mate's rush to their respective rides and making a beeline for their homes, no doubt to get ready for what was probably going to be the greatest party of the century. Despite all the complaining he was sure to do when his classmates came back on Monday with a myriad of war stories he would envy for the rest of his life, he was glad not to be going. He liked nights in with Sherlock, better yet, he liked nights out with Sherlock. Tonight would most likely be one of those nights. The detective was growing bored since his last case ended nearly a week ago and would be on the prowl for something new. Which was good, it meant things were finally back to normal.

When he'd finally told Sherlock about his dreams all those months back, the detective had become even more adamant about him going to therapy. That meant that there were longer breaks between cases in which the man spent the majority of his time trying to convince John to go. He gradually began to take on more cases and bother the boy less about it. Probably a combination of him realizing John's resolve not to go and the growing infrequency of his nightmares. Whatever the reason, John was just glad for things to be back to normal, or well, their version of normal.

He made his way through the city, walking most of the way despite the convenient tube stations. The boy was fond of his new home in the city and often took great pleasure walking through it when the weather allowed. His walks to school and back provided him time to get some air. The air wasn't as fresh as it was in his home town but somehow that just added to the appeal. He could breathe in the city and all it had to offer him, all that it had already given him. As he drew closer to Baker Street his heart did a back flip. Two years ago he would have told you it was impossible to be in love with a street, he would have told you it was impossible to have an emotional attachment to a building, or to be infatuated with a man who kept human limbs in the ice box. That was two years ago though, that was before he knew what it was like to have a home, now he could see it quiet clearly.

He stepped up to the door and was greeted by the smell of something cooking in Mrs. Hudson's flat and the pleas of a voice that sounded vaguely familiar coming from upstairs. Just as he was about to head up to investigate further the landlady popped out of her flat to smile at the boy.

"You're home dearie, so good to see you! I baked you boys some cheese biscuits, thought it might lighten his mood."

She said handing John a basket of some delicious looking biscuits.

"He's been in a mood has he? Must still be in search of a case then."

The boy said eyeing up a particularly nice biscuit.

"Yes, that's the fifteenth today, just stepped in and he already sounds agitated. So far no one seems to catch his fancy. Oh well, bound to be a murder eventually knowing this city. It's such a dangerous place, really it is."

John nodded in agreement then turned his head to look up at the door that was now doing a poor job at covering up the detective's exclamations of 'boring'.

"I'll go check up on him then, shall I? Thanks for the biscuits Mrs. H they look lovely."

He said with a smile and a quick peck on the older woman's cheek before bounding up the stairs. John opened the door hesitantly as he'd learned that minor distractions could distress clients even further when dealing with the mad detective. He crept into the flat quietly and made his way to the kitchen where he deposited the biscuits. After placing his back pack on the table he slowly made his way towards to living room where he froze. Panic over took him instantaneously and if his limbs hadn't been rendered immobile he would have bolted from the room right then. He was almost certain his heart had stopped working as well and he stumbled backwards until he was leaning against the wall to keep himself from falling over.

"John?"

Sherlock and the client practically shouted in unison. Sherlock looked to the woman with an expression that rivaled John's level of panic.

"John, what…why…?"  
The boy looked on in horror as the woman got up from the sofa and took several shaky steps towards him.

"What's the meaning of this? John, who is this woman?"

Sherlock questioned anxiously. John's eyes shifted from the woman back to the detective and felt his fear mounting.

"She's my mother."

The boy said in a voice barely above a whisper, but the detective heard, oh how he'd heard. Sherlock grew sickeningly pale and his eyes went wide as he then moved his gaze back upon the woman.

"John, have you been here? All this time?"

His mom asked in a trembling voice that matched the uncertainty in her foot steps. John did his best to answer but all he could manage through his shock was a nod. His mother shot a hand up to cover her mouth as a soft sob escaped from her lips.

"Two years, I-I wondered for two years…I wasn't sure if you were even…I didn't know…"

She was crying now and it pulled at the boy's heart. In all his time at Baker Street he hadn't once considered how his mother would feel. Part of it was his resentment, she hadn't done much to protect him, and part of it was that he'd been purely focused on the negative aspects of his old house. She hadn't been the best mother, but she was still his mom, and it bothered him to see how much pain he'd caused her.

"Mom, I…I'm sorry."

It was all he could manage; there was really nothing else he could think to say. There wasn't much else _to_ say. The boy had good reason to leave, he had good reason not to tell anybody (including his mother), but he was sorry. He was sorry for the pain he must have caused his mother, his friends, possibly even his sister. That didn't mean he regretted his decision though, it just made him sorry.

"The missing person's case you came here about…it was about John."

Sherlock whispered mostly to himself but his mom nodded in response anyway.

"I heard about the amazing detective in London and came as soon as I could."

She explained taking another step closer to the shell shocked boy.

"It's been two years."

Sherlock stated bluntly taking his mother off guard. She stopped moving forward and looked to the floor shamefully.

"Yes, well, like I said before, as soon as I could."

She replied quietly as John finally was able to push himself off of the wall. With a new found sense of courage he brought himself closer to the frightened woman.

"What happened to Mr. Watson?"

Sherlock asked coldly taking a step closer to John. The boy's eyes widened even more if that was possible as he watched another sob rack his mother's body.

"Mom, what happened?"

John inquired carefully. His mother launched forward to embrace the boy tightly and clinging to him as she continued to cry. Sherlock flinched at the sudden contact and looked as though he were prepared to pry the woman off of John at a moments notice.

" Y-your father, he-oh god-he's dead John. He was so angry after you left; he-he was out all the time…he got into a fight with some man from out of town…it was real bad."

His mom sobbed into his shoulder as she delivered the news. He looked to Sherlock who's face was stoic as usual but the man's eyes were locked on his own. John wondered what he looked like; scared, confused, sad, angry? He wasn't sure, but he though it might help him pin-point what he was actually feeling if he could see what he looked like. It was difficult to tell, there was so much to process. His mom was here for one, he hadn't seen her in years. Then there was his dad being dead, that was…news. Should he be sad? Happy? The man had tormented him for 16 years, but…he was his father. It was too much, certainly more than he could begin to understand in a matter of minutes.

"John?"

His mother whispered after about five minutes of her clinging to his rigid body.

"Yes?"

He croaked out as she pulled herself back to look up into his eyes. Up? Yes, he'd grown since he'd left; he was now taller than his mother. It was an odd thing to fixate on, but it was the only thing he could really comprehend at the moment. He focused his attention back onto his mother's face as she seemed very intent to tell him something.

"John, I want you to come home with me."


	18. Chapter 18

**Runaway Home**

**Chp 18**

"John, I want you to come home with me."

No. Nope. Nine. Aucon. Hindi. Jo. Nie. Ingen. It didn't matter what language you said it in, the answer was a resounding no as far as the detective was concerned. His hands tightened into fists and he desperately tried to reign in his emotions. This…_woman _was trying to take John away from him. He had feared John leaving before, but as a far off prospect, something to happen over months, that he would leave because of school, or even farther off in the future for some potential bride. They were thoughts that troubled him, but they were distant. This was immensely different, this was in his face, it was now, it was too sudden. He wasn't ready, his mind was racing almost as fast as his heart and he could barely keep his breathing under control. Every molecule of his being was concentrated on two sole purposes. One, to keep himself under control, and two, to hear every part of John's answer no matter how painful it might be. If he was about to go he would need to know why, he would have to rationalize some reason that would make it sting less. Some sort of explanation that would make the new found emptiness in the flat less noticeable.

John gently pulled himself away from his mother and Sherlock's hearing sharpened accordingly. He watched the boy with invested interest and guarded himself for the inevitable. How could John say no to his mother? It was his _mother_! John was a person of sentiment; he would want to please his mother. He wouldn't care what it did to Sherlock; Sherlock was just his eccentric flat mate, not a blood relative who gave him proper care and attention. Except that wasn't true was it? A flare of anger flickered in the detective's stomach. This woman had let that man hurt John. He had seen the scars; he had cataloged everyone in the hopes that he may one day do the same to the person who had put them there. Now that man was dead and the thought both pleased and upset him. His death was deserved, but it meant he would never exact his own revenge, and it had brought the woman here.

John's mother was looking expectantly at the boy and the tenseness of the situation was palpable. John's gaze shifted from his mother to Sherlock for the briefest of seconds and the detective was almost certain he let out the faintest of gasps. This, he realized, could very well be one of the last times he looked into those deep blue eyes. The thought was terrifying and far too real. John returned his attentions back onto his mother and gave a weak but heart felt smile.

"I know. I know you do, and I want to. I want to go back to our house and forget all the bad things that have happened there and for us to make new pleasant memories. I want us to talk, and to be close. I would love for us to move past what we've been through, what he put us through…"

No, no, no. It was happening and the detective could feel his knees going weak. He might collapse by the time the boy was done talking if he wasn't careful. Sherlock did his best to keep his emotions from boiling over but it was growing increasingly difficult.

"I want that, but it will never happen. Nothing could ever make those memories go away for me, mum. Please understand; the reason I can't go back with you is very similar to the reason I left. That house holds nothing but pain for me. What dad did…it's not something I can just bury in the past. It's something that continues to affect me, dead or not dad will be present everyday of my life. In that house though, it's amplified. I couldn't go a single day with out the lingering fears for what nighttime had meant there. Mom…there's nothing there but bad. You can't hope to start anything good out of something so corrupt."

John said sternly but with his unique way of sounding so confident and comforting at the same time. Sherlock nearly fainted with relief, John was staying!

"We could move! We could go away from there; they just built a real nice apartment complex in town. It's just outside of Mike's neighborhood. He's missed you, Sarah's missed you. Sometimes I think they miss you just as much as I have. You have to come back home love, we're your family. Please don't do this to me, my heart can't take it. I can't loose your father and you…I just can't."

The woman cried reaching forward to entangle John in her shaky arms once more. Sherlock had to suppress a growl. This woman was ruining everything, why couldn't she just leave! John stepped out of her embrace after a minute and looked her in the eye.

"You are my family, and you always will be, but you are not my home. I don't like upsetting you, you're my mother and I really hate to see you like this. I'm sorry I've worried you and my friends, but I needed to worry about myself for once. Don't you see that? I was running for my life. Dad stabbed me mum, he _stabbed_ me. He didn't just knock me into a piece of furniture or give me a punch to the gut, he _stabbed_ me. That's why I had to leave, because I didn't know how bad it was going to get, I didn't know if I'd be able to patch it up the next time."

John spouted intensely and when he finished Sherlock let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. Stabbed? That would explain the larger scar on his right bicep. The thought enraged the detective so thoroughly that he didn't even have the time to revel in the fact John was resolute in staying with him.

"Sweety…I know things were never perfect, but we were your home. We loved you, cared for you. Your father had a nasty temper, and a tendency to drink but he was a good man. He loved you, and he provided for you. When you left…it destroyed him!"

The detective's resolve was waning fast, this woman needed to go. John looked deeply hurt by her words and was edging backwards seemingly to find perches against the wall once again.

"Good men don't beat their children! No matter what the circumstances, and good mothers don't let them! How dare you come here and accuse him of anything you pathetic excuse of a person! You have the audacity to talk to him like that when you stood idly by as your drunkard husband left him bruised and bloodied! He should have left sooner; he should have been taken away! You don't deserve him; you don't even deserve to breathe the same air as him."

John's pained expression had been the last straw it seemed as all of the detective's anger was spewing forth and washing over the woman abrasively. She looked shocked and terrified by Sherlock's declaration. There was a pause, as if everyone in the room froze in place so they could fully grasp what had just happened. Even Sherlock was finding himself perturbed by his sudden outburst. After what could have been hours John's mother finally spoke up.

"John…is that…is that how you feel?"

Her eyes were wide and every bit as expressive as her son's. For a moment all John could do was blink as he processed what had just happened.

"No…I…you're my mum…I just…that was a bit harsh…"

The boy stammered as he cast his gaze down at his feet. In an act that both surprised and confused the detective John's mother moved forward to place a soft kiss on the boy's forehead.

"Be honest with me, I have been with you. I loved my husband, and I loved my children, I still do…I may not have always done right by the three of you, but I like to think I tried. Tell me what you're thinking."

She muttered quietly to her son as she patted down the hair on the top of his head.

"I love you too…but if you want honesty…mum I want to stay here, with Sherlock. I have a home here, I have a future here. I'm in a good vocational school; I'm graduating in a couple of weeks with a 3.8 average. I've already been accepted to King's College here in London and I intend to stay at Baker Street while I attend. Mum, the honest to god truth is I've never been happier then I am now…if you really love me, you'll let me stay."

Silence fell over the group once more as the boy finished. Sherlock felt a growing swell in his chest and an increasing desire to swoop down and kiss the boy. He wanted to stay! He wanted to stay _with Sherlock_! It was more than he could have hoped for, the once horrifying situation was now something he would treasure for the entirety of his life. John's mother was tearing up again and the detective listened closely so as not to miss what the idiotic woman was about to say.

"I wish you felt differently John, I…I really do. You're an adult now though and I can't make your mind up for you. If you want to live with this…_man_, that is your decision. I don't approve, but I guess that doesn't really matter. Just…don't disappear again. Call me, write me, do something so I know what's happening. I deserve that much at least don't I?"

John's mother said quietly but with a thinly masked layer of disdain the detective wasn't sure John picked up on. The boy nodded vigorously and stepped closer to the woman with his arms open to embrace her once more. His mother declined hastily by lifting one arm up to signal the touch was not welcomed. John's features deflated as he stepped away from the woman. Sherlock had half a mind to reach out and strike her, but some how it seemed inappropriate given the previous conversation.

"I'll show myself out."

She said curtly before quickly exiting the flat and shutting the door loudly behind herself. The detective looked over to the boy who was clearly on verge of some emotional outburst. John began walking to the stairs that led to his bedroom and something in Sherlock's mind clicked. He knew that this was important, this moment meant something. What he did here today would affect their friendship and potential relationship in a major way. He could remain the distant and mysterious detective that he'd come to be known as, or he could become something more, something human and attainable. With out any further thought on the matter he leapt forward to stop the boy from walking across the room. He held fast to John's wrist and the blonde stopped moving but did not turn to look at the man.

"John?"

John didn't answer, he just stood their draped in silence. Sherlock, in a sudden burst courage, tugged on the boy's arm forcefully so that he stumbled towards the detective in shock. Sherlock's spindly arms encircled him almost immediately and brought him flush against his chest. The motion was odd, unpracticed, and a surprise for both parties. It wasn't unwelcome though, they both benefited from the other's close proximity and comfort.

"Odd."  
John finally huffed out after the hug dragged on for what was probably a span of ten minutes.

"What is?"

Sherlock asked trying to mask the fear bubbling up inside himself, he wasn't sure John wanted to be touched. He was always so adamant they do more to convince people they were not involved romantically, perhaps that extended to behind closed doors as well.

"Well, we're hugging…and neither of us has been shot or nearly killed in some way. Guess I'm just not used to it is all."

The boy said in a weakly amused tone. He was trying to ease the tension and seriousness from the room as he so often did. Sherlock could easily allow him to render this moment as a mere side affect from the stressful events they'd just experienced, but that didn't seem right. This had to mean something.

"It would have broken me."

He said quietly into the boy's hair.

"What?"  
John questioned lightly and he froze as if every atom of his being was focused on what the detective said next.

"If you left with her, if you left Baker Street. It would have broken me."

For a long time there was nothing and Sherlock wondered if he'd said too much, then he felt John's arms tighten around him and his head burrow deeper into his chest before he whispered.

"Me too."

**Note, I used Google translator for the other languages...so I have little to no idea if they're correct.**


	19. Chapter 19

**Runaway Home**

**Chp 19**

**Thanks once again for all the lovely reviews and for everybody actually enjoying this. Oh, and for everybody who has commented on it, I'm not sure if I will be covering season 2. I just don't know if it will fit…nothing is set in stone though, if I find that it works well then I will.**

Summer came and went in the blink of an eye and by the end of it John was left feeling impressed with how much he and his flat mate had accomplished. They'd successfully side stepped his mother in a number of ways. First was the most obvious in which they affectively convinced her not to try and physically drag John back to their home town. The second was that after a few phone calls that had left John feeling particularly moody Sherlock developed a new means in which to keep his mother informed without having to hold up stressfully long phone conversations. John's blog was up in running within thirty minutes of the detective's suggestion and the boy dutifully filled his mother (and a better portion of his home town) in on all that had happened to him since he left for London and updated at least once a week to keep them up to speed.

They had also solved a few rather vicious homicides, though, not all of them went smoothly. Not that anything at Baker Street ever went smoothly in the traditional sense, but one case in particular had shaken things up a bit. There had been a string of murders in which the killer's victims had been teenaged boys. Their murders were brutal and looking at the corpses had brought him close to vomiting (Which was saying something considering the bodies the eighteen year old had seen in the past two years). What was odd wasn't John's reaction however but Sherlock's. The detective's normally distant and cold demeanor towards the victims was shattered when they'd come across the third victim. The boy hadn't been with him at the time as he had spent the better part of the day convincing his mate Ethan that breaking up with his girlfriend was not the end of his life. So it seemed that when the detective reached the crime scene three facts stuck out in his mind with painful clarity. One, this boy was blonde. Two, this boy was a shorter than average eighteen year old male. Three, the boy's face was rendered unrecognizable. Then there was only panic. Sherlock had come barging into the flat only moments after John had arrived. Needless to say he was surprised by the emotional greeting he received.

The case wasn't so much as important as what the case had helped him to realize. Sherlock Holmes did most certainly care about him, and it only made John love him more. When the man had defended him and comforted him during the surprise visit from his mother fiasco, he had begun to notice, but the case is really what let in sink in. His attempts to find a girlfriend were seemingly useless; no matter what he did he just grew more and more in love with the detective. It was frustrating to say the least. Sherlock's love for him was most likely the sort one would have for a younger brother, but even if it wasn't there was one thing he new for certain, it was platonic. The detective had made it clear early on about his opinions on sex and John had never forgotten. None the less the brunette reminded him almost daily, not in so many words of course, but John knew the signs. Sherlock was a straight forward bloke and wouldn't be hindered by social niceties, if he wanted John he would tell him.

John couldn't even manage girlfriends anymore. He wanted to, he desperately longed to. He just couldn't. It wasn't that he wasn't attracted to girls; on the contrary, he found them very nice. The problem wasn't the girls, it was his flat mate. Every time he'd get alone with a girl all he could think about was doing the same things with Sherlock. It was a horrible sort of self inflicted torture that caused him constant pain. He didn't like to be away from the detective either, so dates became few and far between for those two reasons. It was driving the boy insane. He'd been so intent on blokes being blokes, so concentrated on being the heterosexual male he'd always seen himself as, and it was all coming to pieces. All because of some stupid hug. Now all he could think about was that hug, imagine other hugs and other…things. He made excuses to touch the man and his indulgence really only made things worse, but he was far past being able to help himself.

Lucky for the boy university came quick. He was in fact impressed with all he and his flat mate had accomplished but at the same time there was (and always would be he imagined) regret. He regretted that he would probably never get that summer back, when Sherlock had had two separate occasions of being so open with him. He would never have another chance to have explored that openness and possibly opened himself up as well. There was shame in that though. John wanted to tell the detective how he felt, but he worried what it would do to their friendship. It's not as though he expected Sherlock to change who he was for the boy so the knowledge would likely only complicate matters. All those thoughts that had troubled him over the summer became smaller when he had school to worry about. He could focus his thoughts on books, papers, rugby matches, and social outings.

Yes, despite his reluctance he had decided it would be best to hang out with people other than Sherlock. He needed some distance, and maybe by some off chance he'd meet someone more attainable. Hopefully someone female. The boy was successful of course in finding a new gaggle of friends to hang around with on campus and exchange notes and gossip with. In a matter of weeks he'd already formed a sort of circle of friends, not that he didn't talk to anyone outside of it, John was a friendly bloke and welcomed conversation from anybody. The boy didn't find he had the chance much though, between his new group of friends and Sherlock he didn't see much of anybody else.

One mate from his new onslaught of uni friends was named Bill Murray and he was beginning to become a rather good friend. Good enough in fact that after a month or so at school he invited him over for dinner. The concept was completely new to the boy and it made him a bit anxious. In his home town he didn't have to worry about such things, he already knew everybody's parents, grandparents, cousins, second cousins…it was a small town. So this was something unknown and it put him a bit on edge. Of course Sherlock didn't help, merely commented on how if he was nervous he should just cancel. A typical answer, the man was always trying to get him to cancel his plans. He pressed on though, and eventually he found himself at Bill's door step, just moments away from meeting his family.

"John!"  
Bill shouted as he swung the door open and dragged the unsuspecting blonde inside.

"Hi Bill."

John managed as he was shoved out of the way of the shutting door.

"I apologize in advance John, really I do. I don't know what I was thinking inviting you over to this insane asylum."

Bill whispered harshly as his eyes shifted around the room suspiciously as if he were on the look out for something. John looked around the room but didn't see anything so he returned his attentions to his distressed friend.

"I'm sure they're fine. I live with the craziest man in London remember? You've personally witnessed him harpoon that dead pig in our biology class to get me to come home."

John pointed out in a steady voice hoping that his calm demeanor would put his friend at ease.

"Yeah, well that's beyond crazy, it's so crazy it's just funny. My family is the kind of crazy that makes you want to pull your hair out."

Bill said with a huff.

"Why did you invite me over in the first place then? Not that I don't want to be here, but clearly you're put off by this whole thing."

John questioned as he was beginning to become legitimately confused.

"It wasn't my idea, it was my dad's. He insisted. He's obsessed with meeting all my friends, he always has been. I had to fight him to make it just you, he wanted everyone over."

Bill fumed and crossed his arms angrily.

"Wow, I can't imagine having all the gang over here...oh well, it's just me. I don't scare easy so don't sweat it."

John said and gave the curly haired boy a pat on the shoulder. Just then a tall tanned man walked into the room with a friendly wave and a large smile. He looked nothing like Bill, but then he did recall the boy saying something about being adopted at some point.

"Hello, you must be John, my name is David. I'm Bill's father."

The man extended his hand and John shook it firmly.

"Good to meet you sir, I'm glad to be here. It's awful nice of you to open up your home to me and I do appreciate it."

John said with a big smile. Bill's father seemed pleased by John's attitude and returned the smile with one equally as big.

"Let's go to the dining room, shall we? My husband should be done with dinner any second now."

Husband? Now _that_ was something he knew he'd never heard Bill mention before. He looked back at Bill who's face had turned several shades darker and had a look of nervous embarrassment. It was as though he'd simply forgotten to mention it and found the slip up rather mortifying and now that it was out there he was afraid what John would think. John offered him a quick smile and a simple nod to signify he didn't care and it seemed to give Bill some comfort as he did smile back. John turned his attention to the house they were walking through as the three made their way to the dining room. The house was huge, or at least the biggest he'd ever been in. He wondered what it must have been like to grow up in such a place as a kid. It made him wonder if Sherlock grew up in a place like this. He knew the detective came from money, it was entirely possible. As they entered a room with two large decorative doors he noticed immediately this was the dining room they'd been referring too. There was a large crystal chandelier and the table looked as though it could serve his entire anatomy class. It was no wonder they'd offered to serve dinner to all of Bill's friends! There were four places set and John took the one next to Bill and sent him a look of wonderment which the boy shrugged off. He was used to it apparently.

"This place is lovely."

John blurted out as he observed the intricate moldings on the walls. David nodded appreciatively taking a look about the room himself.

"Yes, it really is. William inherited it from his grandmother a year or two before Bill's adoption was completed. Perfect timing really…well…not the whole grandmother dying bit, but…you know, the house."

David stammered and ended his ramblings with a nervous cough. Bill rolled his eyes but said nothing, John simply smiled. David seemed like a nice bloke, not crazy at all. Then William walked, or rather, strutted in.

"Hello! Oh my, he's cute isn't he? God I could eat him right up! Oh sugar-bear, you need to bring friends over more often!"

William proclaimed in a sing song voice that was probably loud enough for the neighbors to hear. John stared at the man with unblinking curiosity and a smile of amused disbelief planted firmly on his face. Bill on the other hand looked ready to grab his dinner knife as stab the man, or himself, which ever was quickest judging by the tick in his eye. David seemed quietly amused by the whole situation and offered his son an apologetic smile that was either out right ignored or not noticed. John seemed far more entranced by William's balancing act with the fancy china serving dishes that matched the dishes on the table then the other two. William set each one down quickly an efficiently in an elegant and organized fashion.

"So, John (it is John, right?), we've heard an awful lot about you and the rest of those young things, but Billy boy left out all the juicy details. Anything interesting you'd like to tell us about yourself now that we have you all to ourselves."

William asked as he spun into his chair in an overly dramatic fashion. Bill had a knuckle white grip on the table and was audibly grinding his teeth which really only made everything funnier for John. Bill had said crazy but so far from what he could tell William was just flamboyant. He was wearing a flashy outfit that matched his personality to a T. His smile was bright and wide but in no way out weighed the excitement behind his green eyes.

"I, well I'm not sure what he's told you."

John stated dumbly as he tried to regain focus on the conversation and not the several gaudy rings on the man's hands.

"Oh, just the boring stuff. You're a medical student who plays rugby who apparently has a way with the ladies. I was hoping you could offer up a little more."

William said with a flourish and began taking the lids off the serving dishes revealing a very familiar scent of Thai food.

"That's not boring William, don't insult the lad."

David cut in with a stern but forgiving voice as he began to serve himself.

"I wasn't insulting him. Those are impressive to be sure, but they're _boring_. Tell me something original and edgy."

William replied vehemently as he stole the large spoon away from David to serve himself.

"Not everyone's life is a soap opera dad."

Bill spit out as he slammed a spoon full of the Thai food on his plate, the resulting splat caused all three of the people at the table to flinch. William sat up straighter and sniffed.

"Let's remain civil tonight."

David stated calmly. John served himself the very delicious but extremely well known portion of what he knew to be** cashew chicken, one of his favorites. **

"John?"

William's voice rang out as an invitation for the boy to speak up. John decided it was best he did considering the looks Bill and his dad were exchanging. Some sort of silent war seemed to be waging on and it was probably best to distract them.

"Well I…I like to think I'm a rather good writer…I have a blog that's fairly popular, although it's mostly my friends that read."

John admitted not knowing what else to say.

"Oh, a blog! How lovely, what do you write about dear? Love? Passion? Romance? Drama? Please regale me with your tales of adolescence and all its glory. I'm sure there is a lengthy portion about how many girls you have seduced judging on how badly Bill envies you. Which is ridiculous really, he's a gorgeous boy and has had plenty of dates, you've shown him decadence and he likes it! Well…like father like son."

William shouts theatrically and ends with a wink towards David. Bill makes a gagging noise and has a deep blush splashed across his cheeks. John coughs politely before continuing.

"Nothing like that sir. In fact while the blog is supposed to be a way for my mom to check in on me. The main focus of it tends to be on my flat mate Sherlock though."

John said before shoveling a fork full of chicken into his mouth. William lit up instantly and practically slammed his hands on the table.

"Flat mate eh? Perhaps I should look into this blog, sounds like a bit of writing I might enjoy."

The man said in a low suggestive voice that caused John to nearly choke on his food.

"It's not like that dad, just because two mates live together doesn't mean they're shagging! God, you're such an embarrassment. They solve crimes together, Sherlock is a consulting detective."

Bill spewed shaking his fork at William accusingly.

"Bill."

David called out tightly; Bill flung himself back in his chair with a huff and turned his head so he was facing the opposite side of the dining hall.

"Well that's just fine; I enjoy a good mystery as well as the next fellow. Please John; do tell us about one of these crime stories."

William said a little quieter, as though some sort of unspoken apology to his enraged son. John took a moment to drink some of his water to recover from the tug-of-war match he'd just had with a piece of chicken. After doing so he went into exquisite detail on the case of the aluminum crutch that everyone seemed to like so much. Judging by how intently William and David watched him he figured he'd done a good job of retelling it. When he finished William clapped loudly which resulted in a sneer from Bill.

"Wonderfully told dear! Have you ever considered a career in acting? I myself started training around seven but it's never too late to get into the field."

The man said enthusiastically which brought a humble blush to the boy's cheeks.

"Thank you, but writing is more of a pass time for me now. My real passion is for helping people."

John explained but William gave a great sigh that seemed to say he was extremely put out by the prospect.

"If this hobby of yours is anything to go by I'd say action is more what you're into. Have you ever considered a career in the military? I myself have several relatives who've served, you seem like the type."

David pitched in as he served himself a second helping of the Thai.

"I have, but if I do it'd be as a doctor, no use in wasting a perfectly good scholarship. Besides, I'm sure I could do some real good as one."  
John mused as he took another bite.

"I'm sure you would, you're handsome enough to pull off that uniform too. I wonder what would become of your friend though, you two sound close."

William commented as he pushed his plate away from himself but kept his eyes pinned on John.

"I…don't know. I guess he'd just go back to the way he used to do things before I came along. He'd been doing this a long time before he got stuck with me, when I first moved in I wasn't even allowed to help, so it's not like I'm a vital part or anything."

The boy answered simply. It was the truth, Sherlock normally only needed him there to run menial errands and tell the detective how brilliant he is, he would handle cases just fine if the boy went away.

"I didn't mean for the detective stuff love, I mean who would keep him company? He doesn't sound the type to have many friends. He might be a genius and therefore in no real need of your assistance, but one can't simply go from being alone to having such a wonderful friend and then back again. I'm sure your departure would cause him a great deal of stress."

William declared poignantly. John wasn't sure what to say, he hadn't really thought about it. It was true John was probably the only one Sherlock considered a friend, but would his absence upset him so much? There were times when the man didn't realize he'd even left the house; it seemed entirely plausible for him to go a year or so with out noticing.

"I can see it now!"

William shouted standing from the table in a flash.

"No!"

Bill hollered covering his eyes in embarrassment.

"You're about to be shipped out, you're lining up with all the men!"  
He pulls a reluctant David from his chair and straightens him out. David gives a small huff of amusement and plays along.

"Sherlock, in a dramatic last minute realization has come to the conclusion that he is madly, irrevocably, and hopelessly in love with you! He has done so while in a sulk back at the flat; he notices the time and rushes out the door."

Obviously taking on the role of Sherlock William skirts about the room as if winding his way through the streets of London.

"Finally he gets there, and for a moment he thinks it's too late, that he's lost you! But whoa and behold it's you! He sees you amongst your comrades preparing to leave for war!"

William acts as though he's spying John (David) out from behind a wired fence of sorts and then begins an overly dramatized slow motion sort of jog towards the man.

"John! He calls out in a panic. You turn to see him heading towards you, breaking through the lines and ignoring the orders of your commanding officers. He cannot be stopped!"

David does his part by turning to look at William in mock shock as the actor slowly approaches.

"Finally he reaches you and there's a moment where you don't hear a single word of what the people around you are saying, all you can process is the man in front of you, chest heaving and eyes filled with desire!"

Bill lets out a groan and David shoots him an apologetic smile. William grabs a hold of David suddenly and takes advantage of his slightly taller status to swoop the man down and stare into his eyes.

"John, he says, I couldn't let you go, not like this. It took your deployment for me to realize what you meant to me! I can't survive without you knowing John! I, Sherlock Holmes, love you more than any murder case! I want to marry you John! I want us to solve crime together always! I want us to grow old together! JOHN! I want to have your children!"

If John wasn't red before, he sure as hell was now. The over dramatic and highly out of character speech wasn't as embarrassing as the realization that it was probably a corny version of something he fantasized about often. Then, it only got worse. William finished his act by capturing his husband's mouth with a passionate snog that left the boy's mouth dry. Bill was dying of humiliation, but John was transfixed. The thought of Sherlock kissing him in such a manner was very appealing. When the two finished David took his seat and looked at the two boys remorsefully, especially Bill.

"An epic romance to be sure."

William proclaimed taking his seat once more. John could do nothing but stare, that performance had taken him off guard to say the least. Bill must have picked up on his discomfort as he was soon yelling at his dad ferociously.

"This is why I don't bring my friends over! Not everything is some big dramatic romance! Can't they just be flat mates? Can't you just act normal for one bloody evening! Jesus, dad, you're such a sodding embarrassment!"

With that Bill rushed out of the room in a flurry. William looked blank for a second before looking to David and then rushing out after the boy. John and the older man sat at the table in silence for a few minutes before the faint sounds of shouts could be heard from the upstairs.

"I'm terribly sorry about all that; let me give you a ride home."

David offered and John nodded numbly in reply, he wasn't even sure if he could talk if he tried. The car ride was initially quiet, but when they came to a backed up intersection David finally spoke up.

"He's just a bit…dramatic you know? He doesn't mean anything by it honestly. It's just who he is, he sees romance everywhere, even when it's non-existent."

The man explained as they sat stuck in one of the worst traffic jams John had ever seen.

"I hope you weren't offended."

"No! No, I…not offended. I just…do we really come off like that? Do we sound, um, gay to you?"

John asked quietly and part of him hoped David wouldn't hear him, he was afraid to hear the answer to that. He knew where Sherlock stood on the terms of romance and it was at the exact opposite of the spectrum that William had just displayed. Then there was of course John's soul crushing desire to cling onto his heterosexuality for as long as possible.

"Well…that's not something I could say really. You sound close, but as far as I'm concerned being close to another man doesn't make you gay. That's not what William was trying to imply, like I said-"

"I know, I…well…it doesn't really matter. I'm straight and he's not interested. So as far as I'm concerned any notion of us getting together is ridiculous. We wouldn't last anyway. He'd get bored of it, the whole relationship thing…it's not his speed. He likes what we've got now, and so do I. Like I said, I like girls. I play rugby, I watch action movies, and you know…I date girls, lots of them. There's no need to go thinking up silly stories."

John said in a matter of fact tone that left something to be desired. They were silent again for a few minutes and the boy stared out the window and purposefully did not think about Sherlock kissing him as William had portrayed him doing so.

"John…can I tell you a personal story?"

David inquired breaking the silence. John observed him for a moment before nodding.

"When I was at University I was a regular red blooded male just like you. I took girls out all the time, played football, and I talked like a sailor. There wasn't a single person who thought me to be homosexual, not even myself. I had idle fantasies about other men that I would shove aside and explain away, then I'd force them away by getting my leg over with another girl. I didn't fall for any of them, and I really liked some, but it never clicked. Then I met William…everything just fell into place. But it wasn't all sunshine and rainbows, it terrified me. I was falling in love with one of my mates, we shared a dorm together junior year and it ate at me. First there was only fear, fear about what that meant, what that said about me. I thought that if I was gay that it meant everything else was a lie. I'd only ever heard of gays like William, flamboyant and chipper. I wasn't anything like that, so what did that say about me? I struggled with it for a long time, but one day I met one of William's friends who was not only gay, but an average bloke. No scarves or skinny jeans, just a tee-shirt and jeans. I finally understood. Being gay doesn't mean you're not you, it doesn't change who you are, it's just a small part of what makes you, you."

It was quiet when he finished, John sat in contemplation for a long time, working up the courage to speak again.

"What did your friends say? When they found out…did _they_ think you were different?"

The boy questioned sheepishly.

"Some. But nobody I missed. Real friends don't care about those things; they just care about you and what's going to make you happy."

John nodded and looked out the window. When they finally made it back to the flat Bill had already texted an apology and John had thanked David for the ride and the advice. He took the steps two at a time before coming to a stop just before the entrance. Everything might be different now, he thought as he stared at the familiar door in front of him. He'd been spending a long time trying to convince himself that blokes were blokes and that meant that he couldn't be gay. That wasn't true anymore though. Being straight wasn't who he was, and neither was being gay, his sexuality in the broader scheme of things was just a tiny part of who he was. He could be a bloke, and just like other blokes. It was oddly freeing to think that, and it felt so simple he almost hit himself for not thinking it before. Now he was faced with another problem though. How could he face his mate that he'd fallen in love with years ago after he'd finally come to the decision that it was ok? That he could embrace those feelings? Especially since said flat mate was an asexual. Should he tell him? Be honest and explain the situation? Or should he maybe just start dating other boys? The thought scared and confused him. He hadn't thought of being with another man before.

His thoughts were cut short when the tall detective flung the door open and stared down at the blonde. He was in his bath robe and pajamas but somehow he still managed an air of authority and respect.

"Are you just going to stand there all night John?"

John smiled and pushed past Sherlock and into the flat.

"How was your evening? I see you had Thai food, but it seems a bit soon to be back from a dinner party. What happened?"

Sherlock inquired as he sat back onto the sofa. His eyes stared intently at John as he stripped out of his jacket.

"The dinner was…exciting. The food was good for sure; Bill's dad was the type keen on impressing people. He ordered the food from that Thai place we go to sometimes after a case."

John told the detective with a bit of a chuckle.

"Oh? How could you tell?"

"The oyster sauce they use in their cashew chicken has a distinct flavor, one I haven't tasted anywhere else. Plus, I sort of spied the receipt while we were leaving."

Sherlock smiled appreciatively before carrying on.

"You said exciting though, what happened?"

"Let's just say Bill's dad was one for theatrics. Things got a bit heated between the two of them."

"Ah, yes, his dad the actor I presume."

"How-never mind. Did you get anything to eat yet?"

"No."

"Want to?"

"Didn't you just have dinner? Are you really suggesting we order food so I can eat and you can what? Eat again? Watch me eat? Seems odd don't you think?"

"You watch me eat all the time."

Sherlock was quiet for a second while John moved to grab a take away menu.

"That's different, you eat whether I suggest it or not."

"Besides the point, plus, I'm eighteen, I can always eat."

Sherlock scoffed at the boy and flopped backwards on the couch.

"You're going to eat, you have to, it's in between cases and if you don't eat now you'll pass out the next time we're at a crime scene."

"Unlikely but I will consent if you'll stop nagging me about it."

"Deal."

John dialed the number and smiled to himself. Nothing had to change if he didn't want it to. Maybe one day he would tell the detective, explain his new found sexuality and perhaps even his feelings for the man. It was a bit nerve racking, but it was thrilling as well. Life was open to a number of different possibilities now.


	20. Chapter 20

**Runaway Home**

**Chp 20**

**Ahhh! It's chapter twenty! Oh! By the way…there will almost certainly be a sequel to cover the next season, followed by the…third story. Yeah. Also, sorry, I was busy this weekend!**

He didn't know why, he didn't know how, but he knew when. Sherlock wasn't accustomed to having such a limited supply of information, he also wasn't used to not caring. Or at least not caring as much. He wanted to know, but would be content with not knowing so long as it continued. At some point during the summer John started taking girls out on dates less and less, and the relationships grew shorter and shorter. Needless to say the detective was pleased. John still flirted with everyone wherever they went, but it was the harmless sort that rarely led to anything substantial. At first he'd assumed it was just a sign of the boy maturing, his over sized libido finally being brought under control by the drop in hormones. Then, John had gone to that dinner. That was the when. After that it stopped; no explanation, no clear reason, it just stopped. John didn't say anything, didn't indicate that anything had changed, he just stopped.

Sherlock observed the boy closely in hopes that he'd find out why, but everything else was exactly the same. His eating and sleeping habits, his studying regiment, his media intake, everything else was left untouched. It was as if the girls had just vanished, and with them, John's memory of them. Because John didn't seem to notice the girls' absence and it brought a smile to the man's face. He liked that John was so unaffected by the change, especially since it made him so happy. The boy still left on social outings, but they were innocent and normally consisted of school work. Nobody had more of John than Sherlock did and that's how he liked it.

Months passed and still there was nothing. Months since the dinner and Sherlock was reveling in it. He loved it, he really did. John being so close to his, being the most important person. Even if John saw it as platonic, it gave the detective hope. Hope that one day he might be able to mold it into something else. Possibly without the boy even noticing. Perhaps the detective could make the change so slow, do it so carefully, John wouldn't know what was happening until it was too late. He wouldn't know he was falling in love with his flat mate until he already had. It wouldn't be too hard, Sherlock knew the boy already loved him; he just needed to redirect that love.

All of that was really irrelevant at the particular moment we find Sherlock in though. Because while, yes, it wasn't to him since that was precisely what he was thinking about, he didn't know how pointless his scheming was. Not only did the boy already return his affection, but in a matter of minutes a very peculiar event was going to take place. This moment of intensity would be the beginning of an epic struggle, but the end of another.

"John?"

Sherlock called out lazily. He wanted the boy to send a text to Lestrade so he could see to it they got another case soon. John's break started that day and that meant he could devote his time to a case. In the detective's mind that meant having John all to himself, exciting the boy in ways only he could. No _girl_ could take John chasing after criminals.

"John!"

Sherlock shouted once more to grab the blonde's attention. No answer. The detective looked over to the clock which read out nine at night. Too early for him to be asleep, had he left? Impossible, he would have said something. Or left a note…Sherlock shot up from the couch to search around the room for a note. On a number of occasions John has had to leave notes out because if Sherlock was too wrapped up in his own mind he didn't recognize the presence of another person, not even one as important as John. There wasn't any note though, so he had to still be in the flat.

"John!"

Was he going mad? Where could the boy be? He put his deductive skills to the test and could tell easily that at the very least he hadn't gone out the front door. Everything seemed as it was when he initially came home from the morgue. Where was John when he'd come home? That's right; he'd said he was going to take a shower. He couldn't possibly still be in there. Just for good measure he checked anyway, to no avail, it seemed John had not taken a four hour shower then. As he crossed the living room to go knock on the boy's door_ it_ happened. There was a massive explosion that sent the detective hurtling towards the ground. The force was immense and it took him a few moments to register what had happened. First there was only curiosity, why had the window just been blown in? Then there was panic, because he still had no idea where John was.

"John!"

He yelled as he shakily lifted himself from the floor. He turned to run up to John's room when the boy came rushing to his side.

"Are you ok? What happened? Was this another one of your crazy experiments?"

He questioned as he ran his hands over Sherlock's face where a few shards of glass had cut his cheeks in a minor capacity. He would have swatted those hands away if they weren't John's, if they didn't feel so lovely on his skin. The detective realized that he shouldn't be focusing on such a trivial thing when there was so much more to worry about. John looked more upset by what had just happened than the detective did and there was something off about him.

"I'm fine, and no I have no idea what happened…are _you_ ok?"

He asked carefully. John had clearly been disturbed by something and normally didn't like be assaulted with questioning when he had. It was clear now that he must have been in his room, upset. Who knew for how long. The detective's stomach hardened into a heavy ball of guilt. He'd been sitting on the couch thinking of ways to seduce his flat mate while he was hauled up in his room having some emotional crisis. It was obvious by the deep red rim under his eyes that this was not onset by the explosion (although there was a bit of panic that seemed to be dedicated to that).

"Of course, I was all the way up stairs. You've got some cuts; let me clean them out for you to be safe."

John said almost absent mindedly as he subconsciously continued to stroke the side of Sherlock's face with his thumb. When he caught himself in the action the boy jumped and rushed to the bathroom, presumably to retrieve medical supplies. When he returned the panic had faded but not the lingering affects that crying had on a person. The eyes (obvious) but the tear stained cheeks as well, and the grey hue the complexion took on. John appeared as though he'd been a mix between grieving and having a panic attack. It was awful to see him like that.

"John?"

Sherlock prodded as the boy dabbed his cuts with disinfectant.

"Yes?"

"What happened?"

"Nothing happened ok? Just drop it and let me take care of you."

John wasn't going to admit what was going on easily, but the detective could wait. Eventually he'd figure it out. For now it seemed he might have found the exciting case he'd been looking for.


	21. Chapter 21

**Runaway Home**

**Chp 21**

Mycroft, Sherlock, Mycroft, Sherlock, Mycroft, Sherlock. God, it was like a bloody tennis match. Not one John was particularly fond of either, especially given he'd spent the night sweeping up glass and actively ignoring the detective's incessant questioning. He thought himself clever the boy supposed, the way the man would coyly offer to help with one thing or another, the way he'd stare and ask seemingly innocent questions about his day. Sherlock always noticed when he was upset, and he always seemed to think that it was only a matter of time, like John was just so predictable, like he knew John would have to tell him. It was bloody annoying. John didn't want to tell him, didn't plan to tell him. If he'd wanted to tell Sherlock he would have done so. No, this was one thing that detective did not need to know. _Ever_.

The problem with being acquaintance with the Holmes brother's though is that where you might succeed in tricking one, you cannot dream of getting one over on the both of them. Therefore the boy wasn't really surprised when Mycroft appraised him with a knowing look as he handed over the case file on one Andrew West. He had hoped the detective wouldn't have seen it though, which of course he did. When Mycroft was around Sherlock's observation skills were at full capacity, nothing got passed him, not even the fleeting look the politician gave the boy. The detective might have been passive in his attempts before, but if his brother already knew, there was no way Sherlock would settle for anything less than full disclosure. Not that he'd have to worry about that much longer as Mycroft was not a man who skirted around the issue, with him things were taken care of in a quick and efficient manner.

"Don't look so troubled John. Don't think that I haven't been keeping an eye on my brother and his only friend. It will all be sorted by the time you return for classes."

The Politician explained with a tight smile.

"What exactly is there to be sorted?"

Sherlock asked darkly, as if his brother knowing something like this before him was a personal insult.

"Well, I rather think that's John's business."

Mycroft retorted not taking his eyes off the boy who was becoming increasingly uncomfortable with this amount of attention.

"Didn't seem to bother you apparently."

Sherlock spit and he stood from his chair, violin still in hand, although he was holding as if it were more of a weapon than an instrument now.

"I wouldn't have interfered if I didn't think it was necessary brother dear."

Mycroft quipped finally moving his gaze off of the boy and onto the seething detective. Sherlock glared at his brother for a beat before turning towards John with a calculating stare.

"It wasn't necessary."

John said finally, breaking the tense silence that was forming.

"I was handling it just fine."

He continued as he looked the politician dead in the eyes. He hadn't asked for help, whatever it was that Mycroft had done he didn't need it. John was perfectly capable of taking care of himself.

"Yes, well you'll pardon my confusion as it seems we have two very different understandings of the word 'handling'. You see, shutting down your blog along with any accounts you had on social sites such as your facebook page didn't appear to me as though you were 'handling' it. I much liked that blog of yours, it's a good way to keep an eye on Sherlock since he keeps ruining my surveillance equipment; I would like to find a solution that didn't include putting it out of commission."

Mycroft replied smoothly pinning John to the floor under his stare. Sherlock looked accusingly at his lap-top for a moment as if he blamed the thing for his apparent lack of information. Then the detective looked back over towards the boy with a growing concern hidden beneath the surface of his agitated disposition.

"Sometimes the best solution is to let things sort themselves out on their own."

John said simply and turned so that he no longer had to see the looks on the men's faces. He didn't need their pity or concern; he could do just fine on his own.

"Afraid that's never been my forte; I like to deal with situations like this head on. Especially when they involve members of my own family, and make no mistake John, I do consider you one of my own at this point. Although, perhaps not legally yet."

Mycroft said and punctuated his last statement with a sly smirk directed towards the detective who blushed profusely. John wasn't exactly sure what the politician meant by that, did they mean to adopt him? Oh god, no, not that. There was only so much a man could take, and that would be John's breaking point. There was no way they were thinking of making him their brother, there was no way John spent all that time thinking of his flat mate in various-erm-positions only for him to be imagining John as some small sibling. Nope. Though…Sherlock had seemed embarrassed by the prospect so perhaps this was something else entirely that had gone over his head.

"Not that I wouldn't love to sit around and argue with you boys all day, but I really do have some important business to attend to. So if you don't mind I'll just see myself out."

And with that, he did. Mycroft strolled out of the flat just as easily as he'd strolled in a mere twenty or so minutes ago. There was a pause that was filled with as much tension somebody could possibly put into a pause. It made John tempted to lock himself back in his room. Which he decided, after quickly looking at the determined expression on Sherlock's face; was a good idea.

"Well, I suppose it's a good thing you turned down your brother's case any way since I don't much feel up to any investigating today."

He yelped when the detective took a step towards him. John turned to make a run for the stairs when a large hand encased his arm and held him firmly in place.

"John…what was he talking about? I don't like Mycroft knowing more about you than I do."

Sherlock said with a sort of quiet intensity that made John shiver. Whether it was from his slowly fraying nerves or from something else entirely he wasn't sure.

"It's really nobody's business but my own. Your brother found out because he's a wanker, not because I've been giving him information I haven't been giving you, so really there is no reason for you to be upset."

John clarified before tugging his arm out of the detective's grasp.

"You misunderstood me John; I didn't mean it like that. I…want to know, I want to…help."

Sherlock stammered in a panic. The brunette wasn't normally one for platitudes so it sounded odd coming out of his mouth, but there was a sincerity to it that John couldn't ignore. This wasn't some manipulation, Sherlock did seem to genuinely care….and he would find out eventually…but it was so personal! It was too much. Even if he only told him the lesser of the two evils, Sherlock would work the rest out, he always did. For now, John needed time. He needed to think about this, about what all of this meant. There was a good chance Sherlock wouldn't want him around after he found out, and the boy wasn't sure he was ready to face that. Not yet.

"I…please let it go for now. Just…I just want to pretend for a little while longer it never happened ok?"

John replied earnestly. Sherlock opened his mouth as though he were going to add something more when his phone rang.

"You should get that."

The boy said quietly before finally retreating to his room. Once there he promptly plopped himself down onto his bed and stared up at the ceiling. His bed was soft, much softer than his had been as a kid, which was fitting he supposed. It said a lot about this new home he'd made for himself, that everything was perfect, every thing right down to the bloody mattress. He didn't get to muse about mattresses long before the detective was knocking at his door. It wasn't as much of a knock as it was a tap, which was odd considering the originator of the sound. Sherlock was far more keen to burst through a door than to be bothered to knock on it. So the hesitant tapping against the door was highly out of character.

"John?"

His voice sounded just as careful as nervous.

"Come in."

John sighed, knowing that saying no was of no use, if the detective had something to say then he'd make sure John heard it sooner or later. Sherlock entered the room and his eyes landed softly on John's all but relaxed form resting on the soft mattress.

"I-we have a case. From Lestrade, it's about the explosion last night."  
He reported quietly as his eyes trailed down the length of John's body, no doubt making any number of observations on what could have happened.

"It was a gas leak I thought."

John answered blandly as he sat up on the bed to get a better look at the detective.

"Apparently not. Lestrade said they found something he wants us to have a look at down at the Yard."

John froze up at that. He wasn't sure if he wanted to leave the house so soon. What if they knew? He knew Lestrade read his blog, they would often discuss his entries while Sherlock went to work at the crime scenes. What if he'd read it yesterday? Before John had a chance to take it down?

"I just thought it might, um, make things easier for you. Since you insist on pretending whatever it is happened didn't happen."

Sherlock said with just a hint of bitterness. The detective was definitely not a fan of John leaving him in the dark on things like this.

"Fine, just…just give me a minute ok?"

If John was going to do this, it would be in comfort.

* * *

They walked into New Scotland Yard at a quick pace that left John in that sort of half jog he always seemed to do when they were on a case. When they entered Lestrade's office John was extremely glad he'd changed into his favorite jumper because the look that man gave him made him want to turn around and run. He was going to need all the comfort he could get.

"Hello, uh, I didn't know John would be coming around as well-not that it's not good to see you!"

Lestrade stuttered and a weak apologetic smile spread across his face.

"Of course he came, why wouldn't he?"

Sherlock snapped eying the inspector suspiciously.

"Well because…don't you…?"  
Lestrade obviously had expected the detective to have already known. John shook his head slowly to signify that, yes; for once he had managed to keep something from his nosy flat mate.

"What about this explosion then?"

John interrupted before the situation could get more out of hand. Both the inspector and the detective stared at the boy for a moment before Lestrade held up an envelope.

"We found this in a strong box outside your flat…it's addressed to you."

He said quickly handing over the envelope to Sherlock but never moving his eyes off of John. Sherlock looked back at John for a moment before turning his attention on the envelope and rattling off a number of deductions. Finally he opened it carefully and found that inside was a pink mobile.

"There's a message on it."

The detective mumbled before pressing a few buttons on the devise. When he finished the group was listening to a series of high pitched beeps.

"Pips, five pips."

Sherlock thought aloud and then began to stare at the phone intently. Lestrade looked over at the screen and let out a huff of irritated breath.

"It's just a picture of a basement, what are we supposed to make of that?"

Sherlock sniffed and narrowed his eyes at the image.

"I've seen this before…"

With that they were rushing back to the flat. The cab ride was a good reprieve from Lestrade's pitying looks, however it did leave him alone with the detective.

"He knows too."

Not a question, no, that was the last thing from a question. John could see Sherlock was going to start taking this personally.

"He probably saw my blog before I took it down; it's not my fault everybody but you seems to never get off the damn site."  
John hissed. He wasn't really angry at the detective as he was at the situation. There had been a time where he'd felt proud of how many people looked at his blog every day, now it was just a reminder of how many people knew. They were silent after that and entered their flat along with Lestrade so that they could search the basement. Inside there was a practically bare room with a pair of trainers sitting in the center. Sherlock stepped toward them and John all but yanked him back.

"We're dealing with a bomber remember?"

He reminded the detective before releasing him. Sherlock observed him for a moment then proceeded to more carefully approach the shoes. The air was practically electric as the three of them observed the trainers, although the detective was much closer than John felt comfortable with. Suddenly the shrill sounds of a mobile phone could be heard and it nearly gave John a heart attack. He had leapt at least a foot in the air it felt like and it was towards the detective, which of course meant when he looked back at the inspector there was a knowing look painted all over his face. It made John blush and curse himself all at the same time. Sherlock answered the phone upon standing and began having a conversation with (from what John could make out) what sounded like a crying woman. With only Sherlock's half of the conversation the whole thing seemed very confusing, but from what John could tell they were most certainly in contact with the bomber. Not only that, but he was the sort that liked to play games.

"We've got twelve hours, come along John."

"Twelve hours until what?"

"Boom!"

* * *

When they reached the lab at Bart's John was filled with a sort of hope when they found it empty. With any luck they wouldn't have to deal with any other people. Which at first looked extremely promising, nobody came into the room for a good hour while he and the detective analyzed the trainers. John assumed Sherlock was trying to get on his good side by asking for his help with looking at the shoes, although he didn't do it very well. But John was glad for that, he didn't need people making doe eyes at him, he just wanted things to go back to normal. That's when _they_ walked in. Molly came practically skipping inside with an ordinary looking bloke by her side.

"Oh! Hi Sherlock, fancy meeting you here."

Molly chirped with a huge grin on her face that was the furthest thing from surprised John had ever seen.

"This is Jim."  
She continued and motioned towards the man.

"Gay."

Sherlock quipped under his breath and John almost hit the man.

"What?"

Molly asked in a higher pitch that brought further attention to the panic behind her large brown eyes.

"Oh, um, hey."

Sherlock corrected and went back to looking through the microscope. John did his best to block out the rest as he really did not need to hear what happened next, he already knew. He knew it from the moment that naïve girl skipped in the room. Sherlock Holmes was a man who broke hearts, not one who pitied them. So when he tore out the girl's metaphorical heart let's just say the boy wasn't surprised. When she'd run out at last and Sherlock was tossing the number Jim had left behind to the floor John let out a sigh.

"You could have handled that a bit better don't you think?"

"I was just saving her the trouble, isn't that kinder?"

"No, Sherlock, _that_ was not kind."

Sherlock didn't say anything after that, he just gathered his findings and led them out of the hospital. The cab ride back was silent save for John's inner monologue. Which really was just the telling of a thousand scenarios that included Sherlock performing a similar 'kindness' to John when he found out, and John acting in an equally similar fashion to that of Molly.


	22. Chapter 22

**Runaway Home**

**Chp 22**

** If you spot the Princess Bride reference that I put in there because that movie is perfection then I will…give you stuff. Probably just love. I got a lot of that shit lying around. **

Carl Powers. It had been Carl Powers; he knew the shoes looked familiar. Even though he'd solved the case in time to save the woman he was still displeased it took him so long to figure it out. Though, to be fair, this whole John business had been horribly distracting. Both Mycroft and Lestrade knew, they knew this vital piece of information that John insisted on keeping from him. There wasn't much more of this he could take, and if he hadn't had the case he'd have already gone out of his mind. He wanted to let John tell him in his own time, but the detective was not a patient man nor did he like being left in the dark about things so closely related to the boy and his well being.

Despite the muddle of emotions and various theories swimming in the back of his mind, he did still have a case to work on. Which was why he and the boy were on their way to the next crime scene so they could save the next victim from becoming a jigsaw puzzle. It was wet and all of the Yard's idiots were on hand (save Anderson thank god) so Sherlock planned to make this as quick as possible. He observed the car quickly and found the company card for the car rental lying inside the glove box and pocketed it. Off hand he knew the blood spatter pattern seemed suspicious but he'd have to run some tests before he made any conclusions. John was standing closely to him and seemed rather put off with the way Lestrade and Donovan were looking at him. He'd noticed the other day John was very uncomfortable with Lestrade knowing whatever this thing was. To be fair Sherlock had also felt it was an unpleasant surprise.

He moved to get some distance between them and the nosy inspector as well as interview the wife. Assuming John would follow behind he walked swiftly towards the woman without a word. Once he'd introduced himself however, he realized John had stayed back as Lestrade had decided he needed to swoop in the moment Sherlock left his side. He bit back a snarl and continued his charade until the woman (as he'd predicted) contradicted him there by proving her lack of innocence. When he turned to make his way back towards the boy Lestrade was already retreating while Donovan had remained. John seemed just as pleased by that prospect as the detective was. He descended on the two with a stealth only he seemed capable of which caused the detestable woman to jump when she finally noticed that he'd come up beside the boy.

"Speak of the devil. You come to retrieve your little assistant then? How quaint, you must be just loving this."

She sneered as she took a step away from the detective to get a better look at him. Sherlock narrowed his eyes and observed the woman, she seemed quite proud of herself for some reason. He cast a glance towards John only to see he'd gone impossibly still and was staring with wide eyed horror at Donovan. A new found rage pulsed through the detective, this…_woman_ knew, she knew and she was mocking him. He didn't even need to take another look at the boy to know that this was not the time or the place that he'd want the detective to find out. Sherlock wanted to know, he wanted to know more than anything, but he didn't want to do it at John's expense.

"I haven't the time for your idiotic comments today Donovan, nor does John. We have a case to work. Unlike _you_, we spend our time out searching for leads rather than down on our _knees_."

Sherlock snapped and promptly took hold of John's arm to steer them away from the woman. It concerned him how easy it was to turn John around and begin walking towards the main road.

"Not that John wouldn't jump at the chance though, eh?"

Donovan called out to them before they could get too far. Sherlock froze in place to look down at John first who was a picture perfect representation of humiliation and fear. The detective balled his hands into fists and pivoted on his heel to turn and rapidly approach the woman.

"Perhaps I didn't make it clear enough for you pathetically underdeveloped mind, I haven't the time for your useless and frankly desperate attempts to get a reaction from me. I don't care what self inflicted pain you're experiencing because you continue to make yourself sexually available to a married man who will _never_ have you over his wife, harassing John is something I will_ not_ tolerate. Do I make myself clear?"

He was practically vibrating with rage when he finished and all Donovan could do was stare at him for one infuriating moment.

"Loud and clear, _freak_. Have fun playing Hardy boys with your little boy toy, just try not to get in the way of the real police work."

She said huffily before walking away, there was no power behind her words though; the detective smirked at his obvious triumph. That smile was instantly washed away when he turned to see John standing defeated in the muddy path where he'd left him. With quick but careful steps he made his way back up to the boy. He placed a tentative hand on John's shoulder, silently willing him to look up at the detective. John decided he'd rather stare at the ground apparently as he continued to study the small pool of mud slowly engulf his shoes.

"Did you figure it out?"

John said in a heart breaking voice. Sherlock gripped tighter on the boy's shoulder and ducked his head to attempt eye contact with little success.

"I haven't worked out a thing other than Donovan continues to be one of the most foul creatures I've ever had the displeasure of meeting."

The detective said quickly hoping to alleviate some of the boy's anxiety. Though, it was true, he continued to be in the dark on this issue. All possible theories were either implausible or out of the realm of possibility entirely. John took in several shaky breaths then finally looked up at the man with large blue eyes.

"I thought…I was certain you would press her until you found out…it wouldn't have taken much to get her to say it out right."

John replied quietly. Sherlock smiled sympathetically at the blonde and moved just a few centimeters closer.

"I may not like it, but I do respect your decision to not tell me. I can understand your desire to inform me on your own terms. That's your choice and I will be here when you do decide to tell me."

He said more confidently than he felt, if he was honest he was growing more and more nervous about his apparent lack of information. It seemed to help John though who rewarded him with a small smile. With that the two of them proceeded to find their way back to the main road and catch a cab. In a matter of moments they were silently hurtling in the direction of one Janus Cars company where he hoped to find more information on their newest victim. About five minutes into their journey John had begun to steal sidelong glances at the detective and tapping his fingers nervously on his leg. Sherlock did his best to covertly observe the change in behavior that he was almost certain indicated the boy was planning on speaking. Sure enough two minutes later John was clearing his throat.

"It was…a mistake. A very _big_ mistake. I-Bill and I-were in the student union where we normally meet up for lunch. Everything was just fine, perfectly normal, until…he started talking about how his dad is such an avid reader of my blog and-and how it, um, makes him think about things. Well, I mean, he did this skit when I went to their house for dinner the first time and apparently he never really dropped the idea. So Bill was joking about it and how he ended up fighting with his dad on how it would never happen and I-I just blurted it out! I couldn't keep it to myself anymore! Bill is my best mate other than you and it just seemed at the time like it was the perfect time, that I'd never get another perfect opportunity to bring it up in a more casual way, so I just couldn't help myself! And it's not that I wanted to tell him more or anything, don't-don't look at me like that, it's just that I wasn't…I was more afraid how you'd take it then how he would. Part of me felt like you might have even figured it out ages ago and just didn't care and how would I know…oh god."

John was practically hyperventilating and Sherlock took it upon himself to scoot closer to the boy and wrap his arm around him.

"John, just relax. There's no need to be nervous. It's likely that it's something I knew and filed away as irrelevant or perhaps I don't know but even so it will have no affect on how I perceive you. You're still going to be John…so please, take a deep breath and just tell me what happened."

He hoped that came out soothing and he attempted to pat the boy's back as well to give him some reassurance.

"Right…well, I told him that –I'm-well I'm…Sherlock, I'm gay."

John almost whispered and if Sherlock hadn't been listening so closely he'd have missed it. But he didn't, oh no sir, he did not miss that. John was gay? What about all those girls? He had read somewhere that some men use dating a multitude of women to try and refute their true sexual identities, was that what John was doing? Did it even matter? Probably not because now the once straight as an arrow flat mate he'd found himself enamored with was now far more attainable. It took all of the detective's will power to not lunge forward and finally taste those lips on his own. He knew better though, John wasn't in a good place right now. If he made a decision while he was in this state he might regret it later, and that was not an option. Sherlock did not intend to become one of the many people John Watson had left behind. So he would wait, he could wait until this case was over at least. He could give John some time to relax and regain his calm. For now, he needed to focus on the case, and why exactly this proclamation involved Mycroft or Lestrade.

"Well, that's just fine John. I've never been one to care much for a person's sexual desires; it certainly doesn't make me think less of you if that's what you think. I'll need you to elaborate though as to how my brother became involved in all this, or your blog for that matter."

Sherlock said carefully, not wanting to pressure the boy but internally begging for the answer. His fears for the boy's mental state were quelled a bit by his blinding smile. Clearly John had been extremely concerned with how Sherlock would take this news. For now the detective couldn't think about how perfect that smile was, he needed to figure out what he was missing here. He needed to know what had hurt John so much, because as far as he could tell, this was not something that would cause the current situation.

"Oh…yes, the blog. Well when I got home I'd taken a shower and grabbed a bite to eat and all that, then I went to my room so I could update the blog. I hadn't put an entry in for a while and you know how people tend to worry when I don't update quickly enough. They start to think I've been shot up or something. Anyway…when I logged on I saw that I had a bunch of new comments…but they-oh-some kid had over heard what I'd said. He's this guy who Emily used to date and he's had it out for Bill and I ever since we hauled his drunk arse out of her dorm. So he posted something to my facebook, and it sort of took off I guess. Not everybody is very understanding, and more and more people started saying stuff. Nasty stuff about me and…um, well they also spammed my blog too so I just, well I just took everything down. I didn't want to read that stuff, it was…well I didn't need to hear it."

John stared intently at his thumbs after that and for a while there was nothing but sound of the moving taxi. Sherlock would later recall that it was a miracle he did not melt through the seat of the cab as he'd been overcome with a rage so white hot it was a definite possibility. So the detective sat for a long while doing nothing but glaring at a spot above the boy's head. He couldn't stand it, this boy; he'd messed with the wrong blogger. Sherlock would see to it that he came to a destructive end. That is, if his brother hadn't had the pleasure already. Another reason to ignore that idiotic case of his if he had. He could have sat there stewing in his new found thoughts of blinding hate for the rest of forever if it weren't for the look John started to give him. He became vaguely aware that it may appear that he was glaring at the boy so he did his best to make his face void of emotion and returned his gaze to John's eyes.

"I can only hope Lestrade knows because he has arrested the Neanderthal."

Sherlock said smoothly and quirked his brow so that John would realize he was genuinely interested in what exactly happened to his tormentor and how the inspector had gotten involved.

"Well…no. Mycroft apparently had him and a lot of the other kids either expelled or suspended on the grounds of inappropriate student conduct or something. I'm pretty sure he's friends with the dean; I wouldn't put it past him. Lestrade is just there because Mycroft had asked him about the likelihood they could charge that bloke with anything…that's what he was bothering me about today. They want to see if I can press charges for harassment, but…I don't want to."

"You don't want to? John, why on earth wouldn't you want to?"

The detective was incredulous, he couldn't fathom why John would not want to have the most wrath inflicted on this boy as possible.

"Because, he's been expelled and I know Mycroft spoke with him so he must be scarred out of his mind right now, so I don't see the need. I don't need to make more of an enemy out of him than he already is. With any luck this will teach him a lesson in tolerance, one that I don't think would stick if I went hunting down ways to get him in more trouble. That would just make him angrier, and if he's too afraid to lash out at me it will just be someone else."

John explained and turned to look out the window as their cab approached Janus Cars. Sherlock let out an aggravated huff of breath, as far as he was concerned this kid should be locked away for all of eternity. John seemed content with his decision though, and that was important. He could be happy so long as John was. As they exited the cab John handed the driver some money and they made their way towards the building. Suddenly Sherlock reached out and grabbed hold of the boy. John looked up at him expectantly and the detective squirmed under the gaze of those blue eyes. He needed to say something, anything. In a few moments he would be submerged in the case and have lost this chance completely if he doesn't act on it now.

"I want to thank you John, for sharing that with me."

Sherlock gritted out, not sure if it really conveyed just how thrilled he was John had felt the detective had earned the knowledge. Everyone else had been an accident one way or another, John _chose_ him. There was thought behind it, there was a risk (or at least he had thought there was), and he took that leap for Sherlock. It was possibly one of the most touching things someone had done for him.

"Sure, let's not make a big deal of it ok? We've got the case to solve after all, that poor sod is still covered in semtex somewhere."

"As you wish."


	23. Chapter 23

**Runaway Home**

**Chp 23**

**Sorry this took so long guys, I had a case of procrastination…and tumblr. Also, holy shit did I forget how much they packed into this episode! Also, also, this may be considered cheating, but…it's what I came up with. **

Ouch. What happened? There was a definite pounding in his head and he felt heavy, but why? What was that smell? Where was he? Nothing seemed to make any sense so John decided it was time to clear his mind and just think, he needed to review what had happened in the last few days that could have led to this. Because really, when one lives with Sherlock Holmes, it could be anything.

First there was Janus Cars. They'd interviewed the man and then Sherlock had studied the blood sample found in the car. The man had been out of the country Sherlock had observed and the blood had been taken before hand and stored in a freezer to preserve it. He'd discovered that the car company was a cover for people trying to escape the country, which their 'victim' had, all the way to Columbia. The wife was covering just as the detective had said; he remembered that, Sherlock had been so smug about the whole thing. It made John roll his eyes at the thought, resulting in another wave of pain. Right, back to why his head was killing him.

Then there had been Connie Prince, the talk show host. Mrs. Hudson had always enjoyed her show and often made John watch when he'd come down with a cold or flu (normally because he'd been out in the rain all night or forced into the freezing cold for some case) so that she could keep him company. He never cared much for the show, but he did always enjoy spending time with Mrs. H, and watching telly with someone who wasn't yelling at it. At first it had seemed she had died of tetanus due to a rusty nail; however that didn't quite add up. He vaguely recalled being trapped at that house with the _very_ interested brother. John supposed he had a thing for younger men judging by the obvious thing between him and the house keeper. It was odd he thought, being flirted with by a man. He hadn't thought of being with anyone other than Sherlock. At the time he thought that it was something he'd have to grow used to, the detective had told him he held no interest for people's sexual desires (but John had already known that, so he had no right to feel upset), now he realized it probably didn't matter at all because the pounding in his head was lessening and the weight on his chest was becoming far more obvious.

It had been the house keeper they soon realized (some sooner than others) and it was on to the next case. John really hadn't been pleased with that (Sherlock's lack of empathy that is), not at all, so he'd spent a lot of the next case on his own. He'd even ventured off to finally satiate Mycroft's constant calling about the murder of Andrew West. They'd faced off a hit man (which John found that it was concerning how this was not the first time this had happened) and almost lost another victim, this time it would have been a kid though. A little more knowledge of the solar system and perhaps it wouldn't have been such a close call, not that Sherlock would admit to that. After that little blunder John had nearly figured out the Andrew West murder all by himself until the detective stepped in at the last minute with the big reveal, typical. He'd pitched a bit of a fit about it but if he was honest he really didn't mind. It was just another one of those traits that should annoy the hell out of the boy, but it really only made him love the man more.

That was it though for the cases, they hadn't received the last pip yet. As far as he could tell they had tied all their loose ends other than the bomber. Which spelled bad news for John because that meant that odd press on his chest could really only be one thing. He figured he'd been sitting in the dark for long enough and venture to open his eyes. The surrounding area was that of a locker room of sorts, the smell of chlorine was thick in the air as well so he quickly concluded he was at a public pool. Odd, all the other victims had been placed somewhere public so to maximize the death toll. Given that it was fairly late (at least it felt late, it had been late when he'd left hadn't it?) it would be safe to assume there would be no one coming here for a long time. Though perhaps he was supposed to sit here for the next twelve hours or so. Not likely, he was wearing a large green coat that would seem fairly peculiar to any body passing by. He peaked beneath said coat just to verify that he was in fact the last pip, he was. His heart picked up a bit at the thought of being the next victim. Everything about this was different and he was close to Sherlock (or as close as one could get), this could be the bomber's way of ending his game with a bang. Unfortunately for John, quite literally.

He wasn't tied up which was strange, perhaps this person thought he'd be out for longer? Just as he moved to stand up there was a crackling in his ear. John froze in place, he'd forgotten about the ear piece. He'd also let himself forget about the snipers. The boy sat himself back on the ground promptly. He couldn't see any, but he didn't doubt it. That would be why he wasn't tied up; the bomber was counting on him to remember the snipers. He'd bet his life on it. The crackling picked up again and John looked around the room nervously, he really had no idea what to expect at this point and it was troubling to say the least.

"We're going to play a game."

A voice cooed through his ear piece and his spine went unbelievably rigid.

"What is this, Saw?"

John spit out sarcastically in an attempt to appear unphased by his kidnapping and he did an excellent job of it too. To be fair though, he had been in similar situations before, so he had a bit of practice. His resolve broke a fraction when a hysterical laugh buzzed in his ear.

"You're funny. No wonder he likes you. Now's not the time for jokes though pet, he's almost here so that means any minute it will be yours and my big debut."

The voice purred and it sent shivers down the boy's spine.

"Sherlock? He's on his way here?"

John asked just a bit more frantically then he'd liked.

"Don't get too excited love, he has no idea you're here yet."

John just tensed more at that, why would Sherlock be coming here then? What had this mad man told him? Or was this of the detective's own doing, Sherlock was known to be spectacularly ignorant at times despite his genius status.

"Nothing to say? Well that's no fun! Come now Johnny boy, don't tell me you were too terribly hurt by that? Surely you must know he doesn't feel the same way. He's a genius, a master of his craft…you're just a _boy_. A cute one, I'll give you that, but certainly no match for the likes of me. I'm interesting, you're average."

The voice sneered through the ear piece and John couldn't help but flinch at the inflection in the man's tone.

"You're insane; besides, he's always found your types more interesting than me. It's not like I'm not used to it. The only difference is when the case is over you'll be behind bars and out of his mind, while I'll be back at the flat with him."

John said in a voice far more bold than how he was feeling. The man snarled but said nothing. The boy smirked to himself, it appeared as though he'd affectively shut the voice up. His smirk dropped instantly when a group of red dots began flashing over his chest. He held his breath to conceal the horror that had begun to seep in. Then there was the clicking of expensive shoes on tile floors and if at all possible John stiffened more. The footsteps came to a stop right in front of the boy and the originator of them was a lean brunette man with a crazed look in his eyes.

"Do you know who I am? Do you know what I do to people who talk to me like you just did?"

He growled as he took two menacing steps closer. John unconsciously scooted backwards further pressing himself against the wall before shaking his head slowly.

"Let's just say it's no where near as quick or painless as a bomb. If it weren't for your friend I'd be tying you down as we speak, unfortunately that would put a major kink in my plans."

The man explained in an ominous tone that made John's throat dry.

"What do you have in store then?"

John asked shakily and the man smiled devilishly.

"Well, I wouldn't want to ruin the surprise."

The man said with a large maniacal grin planted on his face. John swallowed nervously under the insane man's stare and prayed this wasn't as dire as it seemed. Suddenly the man's face lit up even more as he pressed his hand against his right year. So he had an ear piece too John noted.

"Looks like Sherly finally decided to join us, come on, be a dear and go on out and greet him. Don't worry about the talking bit, just do as I say and a good time will be guaranteed for all I assure you."

He said innocently with a sly smile. John got up and began shuffling out towards the pool. The boy cooled his expression so that he didn't seem too worried. If you asked why he probably wouldn't have been able to give you a straight answer, but your best bet would be that he knew Sherlock would need him to be brave. Because as cold as the detective liked to act; it didn't take much to crack his armor, at least not when John was involved. The boy took in a deep breath to calm himself as he drew closer to the pool. He couldn't let his mask slip, not for a second. There was such a feeling of overwhelming anxiety though, and not to anybody's surprise it had everything to do with his flat mate. There was a strong possibility he would die tonight and if that were true he would be doing so without revealing the whole truth, with out telling Sherlock just why he'd been so shattered by those messages. It wasn't just that he was a homosexual, but that everybody knew now that John Watson was in fact very in love with one Sherlock Holmes. Everybody knew, accept Sherlock of course. John didn't want to tell him, but he knew it was only a matter of time before the other shoe dropped. Someone would say something; Donovan had almost yelled it at him. He just wasn't sure he could rest in piece knowing that if Sherlock made it out of here alive, he would find out too late. There was no way to tell how the man would take the news, but his reaction to John's sexuality had told him it couldn't be negative. It was a good possibility the detective did not return the feeling, but that didn't mean John didn't want him to know. The boy would hurt to hear the words out loud, that Sherlock would never return that love in the same way, but it would be worth it. He wanted the detective to know that despite what most people said about him, or felt about him, there was one person in this world that loved him more than anything else.

He tried not to think about it as he stepped out to the pool. No matter how much he wanted Sherlock to know, he wanted him to live more. So it wouldn't due to be day dreaming now. He would need to focus, if there was a way out of this he would have to be ready to get him (optional) and Sherlock (non-negotiable) out of here alive. Sherlock was standing by the end of the pool and looked positively shocked to see John standing there. Shocked? Yes, shocked, where had he thought John was going? Oh, that's right; he'd been on his way to Bill's. Yes, well, this was certainly well out of the way. He didn't get to observe the detective for long before the familiar voice began humming in his ear.

"This is a turn up, isn't it Sherlock."

John copied in a monotone voice. Sherlock looked taken back, utterly out of his element. For a moment John wondered if the detective thought John was the bomber.

"Bet you didn't see this coming."

John continued and he silently begged to end this because it was torture enough to see that confused and hurt expression on his flat mate's face.

"John?"

The detective's voice was steady but there was a fragility hidden behind his eyes that spoke volumes.

"What would you have him say next?"

John repeated and opened his coat as instructed. Sherlock's face morphed from one of confusion to one of horror. He quickly schooled it though and began looking around the pool room anxiously.

"Gottle-o-gear, Gottle-o-gear, Gottle-o-gear-"

"Stop."

The chatter in his ear piece cut off and the silence that followed was unsettling. Sherlock was edging closer whilst looking John up and down, his eyes catching on the semtex each time.

"Fitting, meeting here, where little Carl died. I stopped him. I can stop John Watson too, I can stop his heart."

John wasn't sure he was so glad to have that voice back and he had no idea whether he or Sherlock had been more terrified by the last statement.

"Come out and talk to me, face to face."

Sherlock demanded as he pulled out a gun from the back of his pants. John's eyes widened considerably, since when did Sherlock have a gun? Who would give that man permission to use a gun? If it helped them get out of this then he would be thankful, although he would still have to have a serious discussion with the person.

"I thought you might call, I gave you my number."

The man's voice called out from somewhere behind the boy. Sherlock's eyes narrowed in search of the voice's location.

"Don't you remember? Jim? Jim from the hospital? Did I really make that little of an impression? Well, I suppose that was rather the point."

The man continued as he stepped into the room. Sherlock pointed the gun straight at him, finger tensed at the trigger.

"Don't be ridiculous, someone else is holding the rifle."

"Moriarty I presume."

"In the flesh."

Oh, well…right. John supposed he should have realized that, though to be fair it had been a few years since he'd heard the name.

"John's the fifth pip, clever. Now give him back."

Sherlock bit out from between his teeth and took the safety off of the gun. Moriarty simply chuckled in response and took a few steps closer.

"Go ahead dear, blow my head off. I'm sure John will enjoy my parting gift."

He replied silkily. There was a flash of panic in the detective's eyes and John did his best not to react to it. It was imperative he remain strong, if he panics as well it will only make things worse.

"What do you want?"

Sherlock finally asks and shifts closer to John as the mad man walks closer.

"To give you a message…back off. You've seen what I can do, you've seen how far my reach goes, and now I'm asking you to back off."

"Or what, you'll kill me?"

"Don't be boring, I'm going to kill you anyway. No. If you continue, I'll be forced to burn you. I'll burn the _heart_ out of you."

"I've been reliably informed that I don't have one."

Sherlock quipped and just as he did Moriarty took one final step closer so that his hand could sweep along John's cheek. The boy did his best not to flinch at the touch with little success.

"But we both know that's not quite true."

He answered and let his hand linger, his fingers brushing John's skin every second or so, and Sherlock's eyes seemed to be torn between glaring at the fingers and the face of the man who possessed them.

"I could kill him right now you know."

He chirped and several red dots flooded John's chest. The detective visibly tensed and stared at the dots with horror. The boy offered a weak smile in the hopes it would calm his friend, however it seemed to have little affect. Moriarty moved even closer so that his body was flush against John's back.

"I could take his pathetic life, I could end it right now…we're not too different you and I. In fact we're almost identical, accept for this one fact. It would kill you to let the boy die, where as I wouldn't bat an eye. So where I would accept the challenge, I'm certain you won't."

"How can you be so certain?"

Moriarty smiled and wrapped a hand tight around John's throat. Sherlock was beginning to let his guard down more and more, his terror becoming very evident. John struggled to remain calm as the hand made it increasingly difficult to breath.

"I read."


	24. Chapter 24

**Runaway Home**

**Chp 24**

**Yet another chapter I won't be editing until later tomorrow, it's a disturbing theme, I know. **

"_I read."_

What was that supposed to mean? The detective couldn't even begin to imagine, he was far too focused on the hand that was coiling around John's throat. The boy was desperately fighting his instincts to struggle, to break away from that venomous hand and run; the detective could only assume it was for his benefit. Idiot! John was always putting himself at risk out of some deep seeded need to be the hero. He recalled the time he'd tried to ban that, who was he kidding? This was in John's blood; he would never stop putting people before himself. That's why it would fall upon Sherlock to never stop being there to save him. That particular task seemed near impossible at the moment though, and it terrified him.

He couldn't loose John now, not when he was so close. Just a few hours ago he'd been planning on wrapping up this case and then dedicating a good solid night to figuring out the perfect way to confess his feelings to his now openly homosexual flat mate. As he watched those fingers dig deeper into John's soft flesh he fought the urge to leap forward and pry the assaulting digits off of him. That would be stupid, he couldn't risk the snipers setting off the bomb, he would have to be clever. He needed to distract the consulting criminal, John had forced him to watch enough Bond movies to know that much.

"You read? How nice you've what? Read up on me, seen between the lines? What makes you so certain you haven't misinterpreted? I know John's blog makes us seem close but he informs me it's a wonderful way to lure in readers. They want to think I'm human, that doesn't mean I am."

Sherlock deadpanned with a stoic expression but kept his body taut and ready for action if need be. Moriarty appeared unphased by the comment but smiled wider. The detective looked over to John quickly to see that he understood it to be a strategy rather than a proclamation. At least that seemed to ring true, however the boy was growing more panicked.

"You don't know. Here I thought I was dealing with my equal! Or is it that you're just too out of the loop? You missed it and you've yet to piece it together because, like me, you're above all that. You don't understand these people's insignificant and highly inconsequential emotions, so you choose not to even bother deciphering it. Oh, well that's brilliant if it's true."

Moriarty purred and his ever tightening grip on John's throat was now drawing out tiny tendrils of blood that made the detective's stomach clench.

"I'm afraid I have no idea what you're talking about."

He said nonchalantly, hoping that Moriarty would favor attention towards the conversation rather than the boy's neck.

"No, of course you don't. Should we tell him John? I'd like to fill him in on the little joke."

Moriarty hummed and brought his free hand up to cup John's face. Sherlock fought against the urge to growl at the contact but he was certain that his lip had twitched upwards for a second.

"You can talk you know, don't be afraid Johnny, you're apart of this too you know. No matter how minor your part really is, it will cost you your life so I suggest you make use of some of your last moments together…why don't you tell your detective what the buzz has been all about?"

The consulting criminal practically cooed into the boy's ear making him flinch. He looked panicked and it only added to Sherlock's anxiety. John's life? Their last moments? This was certainly not what he had in mind and he no longer cared for this case at all. He silently cursed his former self for being so enthused by this man's mad genius.

"Come on Johnny, don't keep us waiting."

Moriarty said a bit harsher and judging by the look in John's eyes an encouraging red dot had appeared on the detective's head.

"I-it said-people had commented on how I…when I was in the student union with Bill, I had-hadn't said I was gay. Not in so many words…I told him, I practically yelled at him, I was-that I am…That I am in l-love with you."

John stammered and panic over took his features along with a deep blush. Sherlock stared at the boy in utter shock. Love? John? John was in love with him? How long? How hadn't he noticed? Everyone else knew and they hadn't bothered to tell him? All those thoughts needed to be ignored for now because if he wasn't careful they would never make it out of here so Sherlock could reveal that he felt very similar.

"It's cute isn't it? Your loyal dog has developed a bit of a crush! I tried to explain to him how foolish that was, men like you and I don't love. We become consumed, and it's with things that remind us of ourselves. That's why we're perfect for each other, you and I, we're just alike, just placed on opposing sides. I almost wish it were different, that we could work together, but then, where would the fun be in that? I look forward to burning you Sherlock, to the grand finale of this game of ours. I'm going to do it nice and slow though, I'll take my time finding the perfect way to take care of you."

Moriarty said with a devilish grin and one final press of his nails into John's neck. The consulting criminal then pulled away and brushed off his suit before walking towards the pool's exit.

"I look forward to our next meeting boys, I really do."

He called out as he pushed open the pool doors. The red dots disappeared and after what felt like hours of pointing his gun at the door he finally let out a sigh of relief. However that didn't last long as he quickly recalled the bomb still strapped to the boy's chest.

"Hold still."

He demanded and strode over hastily to remove the vest. John was breathing heavily as the anxiety rushed out of his body.

"Sherlock…"

John breathed out as the detective removed the coat in a frenzied movement that made the boy spin with its force. Sherlock pushed the coat far away from him and his flat mate as fast as he could. Without a second to spare he then moved to examine John's neck.

"Are you ok? Did he hurt you at all? The cuts don't look so bad, but I'd feel better if we had them examined, he could have had any number of pathogens hidden beneath his nails. John, do you feel alright? How many fingers am I holding up?"

Sherlock babbled and threw up his hand directly in front of the boy's face with two digits straining upward. John batted the hand away and gripped the detective's shoulders tightly.

"I'm fine. Are you ok? You seem very on edge."

John inquired carefully as he looked deeply into the detective's eyes. They stood there for a moment just blinking at each other before Sherlock came to a very abrupt and impassioned decision. He moved his own hands quickly so that one was cradling the base of John's skull and the other gripped his lower back. Before the boy could even register the change Sherlock pulled him flush against his body and thrust his lips onto John's. If he had been able to see John's face he would have seen his blue eyes go wide and his eyebrows shoot up through the ceiling as a deep blush rose to his cheeks. After the initial shock his eyes fluttered closed and he then began leaning into the kiss. Sherlock's fingers threaded through the boy's blonde spikes as he deepened the kiss further. He wasn't sure if he was doing it right but John was responding pleasantly as he'd raised his own hands to the detective's waist.

John's mouth moved quickly and with the precision of a man who'd been well versed, Sherlock held back a multitude of moans as the boy's lips devoured his own. It was needy and reeked of desperation and longing. These two had been waiting for this for so long they didn't know what to do with themselves. Then John, brilliant, clever, perfect John let his tongue slide out to brush across the detective's mouth. Sherlock felt a tingling sensation rush down his spine and opened his mouth fractionally to see what the boy would do. What he did was push that lush tongue of his right into the older man's mouth and begin moving it about in an entrancing manner. Sherlock was certain he did moan at the feel of their two tongues finally coming into contact and wrapping around each other so elegantly that he could hardly contain himself.

John began to slow his pace turning their frantic snogging into languid kisses until he started pulling away completely. Sherlock in an attempt to continue the kiss for as long as possible followed that perfect tongue and held it in place with his teeth before he began sucking it back into his own mouth. It was John's turn to moan as the detective sucked down the boy's tongue whilst rubbing his own on the underside of it. The blonde seemed to be lost in the sensation for a moment and his hips began gently rocking into Sherlock's thigh. Soon the trance was broken however as John caught himself and quickly pulled back. Sherlock looked at him confusedly and with just a dash of heart break. He wasn't sure why the boy had wanted it to stop, it had felt so fantastic for the detective, and John had said he'd loved him. Right?

"Sherlock, that was…bloody wonderful. But don't you think we should probably get a little more distance between ourselves and the bomb over there?"

Sherlock looked over towards the coat that John was referring too and realized for once that it was the boy who was pointing out the obvious.

"Of course, yes. Besides I want to get you to a hospital for those cuts, and I promised Lestrade in my note that I was merely borrowing his gun and would return it before the end of the evening."

Sherlock replied hastily.

"Right…plus I'm sure he will probably want to know we've run into the bomber."

John continued cautiously and with a playful smile he often wore when Sherlock confessed to doing something not so good. The detective then nodded and switched the safety back on the gun before carefully placing it by his lower back, cradled between is body and his tightly fitted pants.

"Yes, of course. We can finish this once we're back at the flat…if that's what you want of course…"

Sherlock said a bit awkwardly as he observed the boy with uncertainty.

"Oh god, yes."

John declared and grabbed Sherlock to pull him down into another kiss. It was quick but intense and when John pulled away he was making his way towards the exit. Finding that he was having trouble processing what had just happened Sherlock stood still for a moment just blinking. John had just kissed him. He and John had just kissed and John wanted more. John wanted more and he had confessed to loving him! The detective blinked some more before shaking his head to clear the fog in his mind and rushed out after the boy. If he was lucky, he might get to do more than kiss him when they got home. The thought sent a rush of excitement through him and encouraged his feet to move at a quicker pace. The sooner they made it home, the better.

**I know this scene should have had Jim walking back in and then Irene calling him and blah blah blah, but I decided no. This fic and the time line I'm on leave their encounter with Irene happening much later so it doesn't make much sense to do that now. Any way, this is also a REMINDER that this story is ending super soon, like next chapter or the one after that. However! The sequel will continue onto season two**** and should be up as soon as the next day so…you know, no biggy.**


	25. Chapter 25

**Runaway Home**

**Chp 25**

**There is a reason this was rate M…(Sorry for the wait)**

Everything was a blur, flashing colors and sounds, John would never be able to properly remember the events leading up to their return home. There had been a trip to the hospital in which the nurses warily listened to the detective's claims of all the possible bacteria that could have been purposefully placed underneath one's nail to cause a fatality with what appeared to be a mere scratch. Then of course was the rather loud discussion Lestrade had with Sherlock about pick pocketing and gun theft. So after being strapped to a bomb, having to profess his love in front of a mad man, being snogged senseless by his flat mate, being subjugated to every test imaginable in regards to his cuts, protecting nurses from Sherlock, having to listen to Lestrade argue with Sherlock, all he wanted to do was go straight to bed. However, the detective had very different plans.

They entered the flat just as the sun had settled above the horizon and John chucked his jacket onto the back of his chair. He rubbed a heavy hand across his face in the hopes to sweep away at least some of the sleep from his eyes. He wanted to just slump up to his bed and sleep for a year, but he knew they needed to talk about this. Yes, he had been excited to just jump right into…well…anything with the detective initially, but he'd had time to think properly while on their various trips. They couldn't do this without communication; he needed to know where they stood with each other. So, with one final deep sigh John turned to face his flat mate to have what could potentially be the most important conversation of his life (he didn't know it yet, but his most important one wouldn't happen until years later and surprisingly the detective would be no where near).

"Sherlock, we should talk about what happened."

John stated as he watched the detective stride into the living room.

"What is there to talk about?"

Sherlock asked coyly, John could have smacked that smug look off his face at that. He always needed make everything so bloody complicated.

"The kiss Sherlock. Or, more importantly, what it meant to you. I'm sure you can deduce what it meant to me, especially since you heard how I feel about you. I just need to know what this is to you, because I'm not looking to be some experiment."

John protested and straightened his posture so that he could put more power behind the statement.

"John, I assure you that was not an experiment. I have thought long and hard what your lips would feel like against mine…that was better, so much better than I'd ever thought it would be. I plan to kiss you for as long as you let me."

Sherlock declared purposefully, his face was stern but his hands were clutched behind his back apprehensively. He was nervous John realized. The great Sherlock Holmes was nervous about kissing his ordinary, run of the mill, loyal, and obsessed flat mate. John smiled widely at the prospect. Sherlock was just as nervous as he was; he wanted this just as bad. All this time, he'd been so sure the detective had no interest in such things, now this…he had to contain himself from dancing around the room.

"How long?"

John asked quietly in an attempt to contain his excitement.

"What do you mean?"

The detective asked in a manner that made him look rather like a lost child.

"I mean…how long have you wanted to kiss me?"

John continued on; glad that he had the resolve to finish. He was quite sure the detective liked him now, possibly even loved him back, but that didn't make the question any less difficult. There was still the chance that he was just a little more attached, that Sherlock didn't feel nearly as much for John as he did for him. That's why he needed to know, he needed to know how long the detective had wanted this. Because John had wanted it for years now, though he'd only really known that he'd wanted it for months, and there was a lot of longing there. He needed to know if the detective had really spent a lot time waiting for this, if he really knew that this is what he wanted. Because John knew, and he didn't think he could go back to the way things were if Sherlock changed his mind.

"Since…I've wanted to kiss you since the day I found you with the cab driver. I've wanted to kiss you for so long it hurt…I thought, I was so sure you were straight. If I had known…you should have said something."

Sherlock explained breathlessly. John's smile grew even bigger and he took a step towards the detective so he could look up and see every detail of those pale blue eyes.

"I thought you weren't interested in sex. You're married to your work after all."

John said simply as he studied every emotion flickering through the detective's eyes.

"I was…I thought. However, you have a way of changing the way I think of things. I never cared for people much, but now I find myself caring for you more than anything else-"

That was all the boy needed to hear and he launched himself at the detective full force. Sherlock grunted with surprise but quickly got his wits about him and wrapped two long arms around John's smaller frame. They fit perfectly John thought as they stood in their living room reclaiming each other's mouths. The kiss was sweet and slow and full of purpose. This wasn't the needy adrenaline fueled kiss they'd shared at the pool; this was the kiss they'd been dreaming about. This was kiss that in that very room they'd spent fantasizing about, imagining how it would feel to have their lips and tongues intertwine and connect them in a passionate embrace. John couldn't help but let a small moan escape his throat at the thought of all the things he'd once thought to just be dreams becoming very real possibilities. He let his right hand fist a group of curls at the base of the detective's skull and reveled in the deep intake of breath the man took to steady himself. John continued to kiss deeply and passionately as his left hand made its slow journey down the length of Sherlock's back. The feel of the man's silken fabric gliding beneath his palm was mesmerizing, but no where near as good as his destination. With determined fingers he finally took a hold of the detective's ample arse and gripped tightly. This time Sherlock moaned, though it came out as more of a squeak as the action had taken him off guard.

John wondered suddenly if this was the first kiss the detective had ever had. It was entirely possible considering his experience with most social costumes. The boy thought back to the pool and the first moments of that kiss, when Sherlock was in charge, he had chalked it u to nerves but now it seemed to make sense. The man had been enthusiastic yet hesitant and had started out rather messily. As John took further control of this kiss and felt the detective grow wonderfully pliant to his touch, it became quite obvious. Sherlock never let someone else take charge if he knew what he was doing. The boy felt a sudden thrill at the thought of teaching the detective a few things.

With a burst of new found energy John pushed the detective against the nearest wall. Sherlock let out a slight huff of confusion at being thrust into a wall but fell silent when John intensified his ministrations to the man's tongue. The boy called upon every kiss he'd ever had, with every girl he'd ever been with to ensure this would be the single best kiss the brunette would ever have. His lips moved as quickly as his tongue and while Sherlock was understandably distracted by this John moved both his hands to cup the man's arse and pull him forward. The detective moaned again, this time with just as much surprise but far more urgency, as his hardening prick was pressed into John's warm stomach. The boy smirked at Sherlock's growing desire and decided to enhance it even more. Thinking back to the pool he shoved his tongue into the man's mouth and coiled it around his tongue then quickly slicked his tongue back into his own mouth. Sherlock leaned forward and surged his own tongue forward in search of the boy's. John pursed his lips just slightly and began to suck on the older man's tongue. The detective made a guttural noise that rumbled in his chest and went straight to Johns straining cock.

As the blonde quickened his pace and sucked more of the tongue into his mouth Sherlock's knees started to wobble to point that falling over was becoming more and more of a possibility. Before he did just that, John pushed his leg in between the detective's so that as he slid down the wall he came to rest on the boy's thigh. John could feel the heat rolling off of Sherlock's growing cock as it rubbed against his thigh. The boy grabbed tighter to the older man's arse and pulled him in closer so that he could feel John's own strengthening attraction press firmly into his lean thigh. Sherlock moaned in approval and opened his eyes to look down into John's as he continued to suck on the brunette's tongue. The detective gasped and pulled away with a shudder.

"Sherlock?"

John questioned, not sure if he'd done something wrong.

"John…I-I'm really close. I wa-I want to…"

Sherlock stammered out through breathy sighs and slight shivers that made John even more excited. He let a coy smile spread from ear to ear and then slid one hand off of the older man's arse and right onto his clothed cock.

"You want more?"

John asked in a husky voice that betrayed his mounting desire as the detective helplessly rocked against that hand and moaned desperately.

"Y-yes."

He mewled just as John had begun to roll his own cock into the brunette's thigh.

"Good, me too. But not here, let's go to bed."

The boy cooed softly into the man's ear and pulled away. The detective nearly collapsed before John took his hand and began leading him up the stairs.

"Wait."

Sherlock commanded with the most severity he could muster and stood in the living room without budging at all.

"What?"

The boy inquired with a bit of concern, if that had been his first kiss it was extremely likely any bedroom activities would be a first too. John lamented that could be pushing it, he was prepared to stop if the man needed some time.

"Not up there."

Sherlock said sternly which made John turn towards him room quizzically.

"Why? What's wrong with my room?"

He asked just a bit put out, the detective didn't expect them to continue in the living room did he?

"I don't want to go to your room, on your bed, where you've done this with so many _other_ people."

Sherlock explained as a blush rose to his cheeks. John's face lit up with understanding and nodded knowingly. The detective didn't want to feel like he was just another, it was endearing actually if not just a tad heart breaking. Did he really think John could think that of him?

"All right love, go to your room and I'll be right back down, I just need to fetch something."

The boy said soothingly and after a soft pat on the older man's cheek he headed up his stairs two at a time. It didn't take him long to find his bottle of lube at the bottom of his sock drawer. There was still nearly half left and he thanked himself for being so careful as to always be well stocked. He clutched tightly to the promising bottle and made his way back down the stairs and into Sherlock's bedroom. He almost dropped the lube when he opened the door to see a very naked, very hard, detective lying wantonly in his large bed. He was running his long elegant fingers over his engorged cock and breathing heavily.

"Hurry up."

He huffed as he gave the head a quick squeeze. John could have drooled the sight was so gorgeous, but instead he opted for stripping himself nude and hopping into bed with lube in hand.

"John."

Sherlock breathed out eyeing the lube and John's lips quirked up into a devilish smile. Without any hesitation he squirted a large amount of the substance into his hand and tossed the bottle to the end of the bed. With an equally quick motion he took hold of the older man's cock and began to apply the slick lube along the shaft and up to the tip of the head. Sherlock fisted the blankets and gasped at the contact. John's smile widened as he teasingly ran the tips of his fingers along the underside of the reddening cock. The detective squirmed at the contact and his breaths became shorter and more forced.

"Christ!"

He hissed as John's left hand cupped his balls and messaged them gently.

"They're so full, Sherlock, I don't know if you're going to last."

John teased as he moved his hand off of the balls and lightly stroked the brunette's cock. The boy then traced a particularly large vein from the base of the penis up to the tip with his nail causing Sherlock cry out almost painfully. Being merciful John finally took hold of the detective's now leaking cock with a firm grip and slowly began to caress it. With gentle but solid strokes he began to properly allow for Sherlock to fuck his hand.

"John, _Jesus_!"

Sherlock cried out as John continued to pump the begging cock. The boy gave small chuckle at the neediness in the brunette's tone and leaned down to place languid kisses along his inner thigh. The detective yelped from the combined sensations and bucked his hips forward to create more friction. His breathing was erratic and would stop all together when John occasionally let his tongue swirl around the now beautifully forming hickey on his inner right thigh.

"_Oh_, John, John, This is-_John_!-this is fa-fantastic! No wonder people k-kill over this!"

Sherlock gasped as John increased his speed.

"Hmm, yes, this is only the beginning though Sherlock. We've still got a lot more to experience."

John hummed and the detective gave a helpless whimper in response. The boy moved his slick fingers off of the cock and over the balls until they came to rest just above Sherlock's entrance. Suddenly the man's hand shot out and caught John's arm just as he was about to push a finger inside.

"N-not yet. I want to, but, not yet. This is a lot for one day; I don't want to rush anything."

The detective said shakily and released the boy's arm.

"That's ok Sherlock."

John replied and kissed the man tenderly on the lips.

"there are plenty of other things we can do."

He continued and flicked his tongue out to lick down the hollow of the detective's neck.

"I can wait."

He stated confidently just before he dipped his soft tongue into the dip of Sherlock's navel.

"I can be very patient."

He finished as he kissed a path down to the tightening pair of balls in front of him. Sherlock was trembling by the time John sat up and scooted up the length of the man's legs so that he sat right below his hips. The boy took hold of the detective's dripping cock once more and pressed it against his own. Sherlock howled at the contact and forcefully thrust his hips upwards only pushing his and John's pricks together more vehemently. The blonde moved his nimble hand up and down the lengths of their cocks bringing forth a myriad of shouts and curses from the two of them.

"I dreamed about this for such a long time, i-its even better than I imagined!"

John cried out as he pressed himself against Sherlock. It was true too, John had been thinking of this for so long and yet he had never been able to predict the sensations to be so phenomenal. Their cocks sliding against each other and into his hand created such a perfect amount of friction he could have wept.

"Oh! Sherlock_, oh god_, it's so _good_!"

John shouted as the detective began bucking his hips in the most perfectly rhythmic fashion.

"Say-_fuck_!-say my name again! I'm s-so _close_; j-just say my name again!"

Sherlock panted and the rhythmic motion of his hips faltered just slightly. John nodded his head in acknowledgement but had to take in several shaky breaths before he could even think about talking again. The feel of their cocks together was blurring his mind a closing his throat up quite wonderfully.

"Sh-sherlock!"

He managed to gasp and as he did the detective came with a shout so loud John would later prey Mrs. Hudson was out at the time. The boy stroked them through the orgasm and was beginning to feel remarkably close himself. When Sherlock was spent he released the overly sensitive cock and concentrated on his own. With a few quick pulls he could have been done but a pair of large pale hands interrupted the maneuverings of the blonde. John looked up at the disheveled man with confusion.

"W-what are you doing Sherlock?"

The boy questioned in a pained voice, he really just needed to get off.

"I want to do it. I've been…_imagining_ something for some time now; I'd like to do it if that's all right with you."

Sherlock explained a bit breathlessly as he was still recovering from a rather spectacular orgasm.

"_Anything_."

John pleaded and spread his legs wide as means of an invitation. Sherlock's eyes widened and he slowly lowered himself so that his full lips brushed across the head of the boy's penis momentarily. John whimpered at the brief contact and couldn't help but buck his hips upward in search of more friction. The detective gripped the blonde's hips tightly and pinned them to the mattress. Sherlock looked up at the boy devilishly and John supposed it was time for pay back. The detective leaned in and flicked out his tongue, letting it run along the veins it found along the boy's shaft.

"Shit!"

John almost sobbed as the detective slowly ran his tongue up and down his leaking penis. With one final stroke of his tongue Sherlock brought his lips to the tip of the boy's cock. John trembled as Sherlock's tongue circled around and around before he smoothly slid the thick cock into his hot mouth.

"Sherlock! Oh god! Just, fuck!"

John gasped as the detective sucked down his cock. Sherlock's tongue worked wonders as it swirled around the thick cock and the boy was crying out with pleasure instantly. With four wonderfully timed bobs of the older man's mouth John was coming with a shout that rivaled Sherlock's.

* * *

After some time (which included a stimulating shower together, a cup of tea that turned into a kitchen snogging, and then some more snogging in Sherlock's bed) they were huddled underneath the thick duvet on Sherlock's bed. John's back was pressed to Sherlock's front and the man had draped a possessive arm around him. He'd been snoring soundly for the past few minutes and it calmed the boy to listen to it. He was tired (exhausted actually) but he couldn't get his mind to shut off. So many of his questions had been answered, and yet so many more new questions had taken there place. Would Sherlock like being in a relationship? Would they act differently now? Does Sherlock like to be so affectionate normally? How often would he want to do stuff like this again? Would they tell any body yet?

He really couldn't concentrate on just one. So instead he tried to calm himself by listening to the steady beating of the detective's heart and the deep breaths he took every moment or so. It was really relaxing, and he hoped he'd be able to do it often. John shifted beneath the older man's weight only to be pulled flush against Sherlock's chest by the man's tightening grip. The boy felt warmth flutter out from his stomach and spread slowly through out his body. With a contented sigh John realized that all those questions could wait. He knew they would have struggles, there would be fights, _and _they would have to face Moriarty again eventually. For right now though, they were just where they needed to be. _Home._

**The next installment will be titled: Four Thursdays John would never forget. **

**Could be up as soon as tomorrow knowing me, so I hope to see you all soon! It will be covering all of Season two by the way, including the fall, but there is a third installment…it's a loooong story people. Hope you plan to stick with it! If not, it was great that you read this much! And thanks so much for all the reviews everyone!**


	26. Sequel

The sequel is now up! Four Thursdays John Would Never Forget. Hope you enjoy!


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